The Investigation
by Acervate
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is three things: A genius, a consulting detective and completely in love with John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes was a genius.

From a young age, he had always surpassed his teacher's intellects and found nothing but boredom in his lessons. He could recite entire chapters of his favorite books, and knew many pieces of sheet music like the back of his hand. Finding a suitable instructor had always been a daunting task, and he never hesitated to point out the not so obvious, no matter how much the truth hurt. He had a superb level of intelligence, memory and wit. His thought processes and reaction times were spot on and never delayed.

And John Watson managed to halt it all and make him freeze.

It had happened very infrequently at first, and the loss of words was never enough to affect his performance in thinking and execution of actions. Within a month however, John could open his mouth and Sherlock would close his, the river of wit and words running dry. He studied the way that the man spoke. In times which called for great intensity, his brows furrowed and his eyes became hard and unwavering. In times of happiness or ease, a gentle smile played at his lips and his voice was soft, caring. Sherlock preferred the the former, enjoying the way John's eyes lit up. Unfortunately, his behavior and treatment of others often made Sherlock the subject of John's disappointment and anger, leaving him to only wish for the calm, pleased gaze.

Attractions to others had never caused a problem either. Sherlock had always viewed dating and intimate relationships are rather tedious, time wasting things. Everything you needed to know about someone could be figured out with a few hard glances at their appearances and mannerisms. Then going as far as to neglect the person's name in exchange for something like love, honey, darling, or god forbid, babe; it was all very stupid and he had no use for it.

Yet, John did. He enjoyed these dates, meeting women and sharing a table and dinner with them, talking and learning more about a new person. Sherlock accompanied him sometimes, his presence going unknown of course. John would smile politely at first and allow the woman to talk about herself, or anything she found appropriate to mention. John held off on personal information about himself until asked or it became of other relevance. He detailed about his time at war, obviously picking up on how his date would always scooch a little closer, stare at him with more interest. A deciding factor in where the date would go often laid in her reaction to John's injury that had made him be discharged. If she pitied him, apologized on his behalf, another date was not to be made.

Sherlock found that women loved to pity his flatmate, and John would have none of it.

That being said, he did manage to find a few women who did not feel sorry for him, did not treat him differently after. They were allowed second dates, third and when one of them got a fourth, Sherlock felt something beginning to grow inside him. He began to hate the gleeful look that John came home with, knowing it was directed at someone else. They did not deserve John, he was far too interesting and intelligent to even know them.

But what made Sherlock so deserving?

He began to wonder after the relationship that had lasted nearly a month crashed and burned and left John moody and sad. Sherlock felt happiness swell inside him once she was gone, and he hated himself for it. He hated that John had managed to dig up undesirable traits such a jealousy and need, and that every single word from his mouth, every single accidental touch left him craving for more. Sherlock did not see much good in himself, excluding his intellect and wit of course. Without those, he would be boring; average. He knew his personality was horrid, and that many people went as far as to hate him for it. His features were nothing special, just another face churned off the genetic assembly line. He had trouble keeping weight on, and the infrequency of meals only accelerated weight loss, leaving him a bony and rather unattractive mess. Or at least, that's what he thought. Back when he was a teenager, he had heard the whispers of girls cooing his name and squeaking out favorable opinions on his looks. But they didn't matter, they were all very plain and very uninteresting.

But John, oh John was not average in the least. His intelligence was above the national average, even if only by a few marks. His face showed lines from stress and war, but his eyes were soft and welcoming, and the color was a deep brown-grey hue that looked phenomenal in moonlight. He was short yes, but the manner in which he spoke and held himself made him stand taller than Sherlock himself. His smile was wide and his laugh robust with joy. He was caring and protective, and so, so perfect.

Why did Sherlock feel as though he was worthy of any of that?

It dawned on him one night, as they headed back from Scotland Yard at close to 1 in the morning. John had fallen asleep on his shoulder, and Sherlock watched as he slept, the ex army doctor's features softening and his face going slack. His hand was so close to Sherlock's and the detective wanted so badly to clasp it and feel the warmth radiate from John. He replayed the day over in his mind, and to see his consciousness become clouded with images of his flatmate, John frowning, John yawning, John smiling as he praised Sherlock's deductions lightly. Then very clearly, a highly irritable and exhausted John going off on Sally and Anderson who had been saying some not so kind things about Sherlock. The detective left Lestrade's office to catch a few of his words in return, such as "prat", "twat" and then a very lovely explanation of why the both of them should fuck off and make sure not to be caught by Anderson's wife. He stormed back over to Sherlock and told him that they were to depart right then. He complied, hailed a cab, then sat in silence as John drifted off and got him in his current situation.

The shorter man awoke as the cab slowed in front of the flat and slowly exited the vehicle as Sherlock paid the driver. The two of them trekked up the stairs and once inside, john managed a quick "goodnight" before going to his room and presumably falling right asleep. Sherlock shed his coat and scarf, then took place in his chair. He went through all the possible reasons once more, then came to terms with the only one that made complete sense

He, Sherlock Holmes, was completely and utterly in love with John Watson.


	2. Chapter 2

_warning: sherlock having dirty thoughts then pursuing said thoughts_

* * *

Sherlock awoke when he heard the third step creak, a signal that John was coming down the stairs. The army doctor came into view and yawned, looking tiredly at Sherlock.

"Did you sleep in your chair again?" he mumbled, rubbing his eyes. The detective looked John over and smiled slightly. "Possibly. You slept in your shoes however, and barely even managed to get your jacket off." John chuckled lightly and walked into the kitchen, starting the kettle.

"Tea?" he called, looking out to see Sherlock nod. As his flatmate bustled about in the kitchen, obviously preparing a very late breakfast for himself, Sherlock silently rose from the chair and went to the doorway of the kitchen, watching John move about. He had definitely not changed the previous night, only throwing on pajamas when he awoke this morning. John wore a simple t shirt and a pair of loose pants, both articles having been bought from the shop down the street. As John stood with the toaster, anticipating the pop up of the bread, Sherlock soundlessly walked over to tower above him. His pale eyes followed from the top his head down and his fingers twitched, wanting to run themselves through John's short hair. His neck was darker than the top of his back, and Sherlock could see the small bumps of his spine showing just above the shirt's collar.

"Sher-" John turned and bumped into his flatmate, which in turn caused the toast that had been smeared in jam to collide with Sherlock's front.

"Dammit Sherlock! Don't stand behind me like that!" John scolded, going to the sink and grabbing rag then wetting it beneath the stream of water. He came back over and began to rub at the dark strawberry stain, pulling the fabric up slightly and allowing cool air to breeze up onto Sherlock's skin.

"Sorry about this." he said, now using the dry side of the rag to rid the shirt of excess water. As John released the shirt, his hand brushed lightly over Sherlock's lower abdomen and the detective felt heat begin to pool in his stomach. When he said nothing, John looked up at him.

"You alright? You're paler than usual." The ex army doctor laid his hand on Sherlock's cheek and the detective had to fight the urge to lean into his touch. John felt his forehead, then frowned. "You're a bit warm. Here, let me grab the medi-"

"No, no, that's quite fine John. I'm perfectly fine." he exclaimed, finally managed to drag himself away from his flatmate. John watched as Sherlock nearly fled the kitchen, hurrying down the hall. The taller man disappeared into the bathroom and John stood there, dumbfounded as the kettle began to whistle. He turned it off and paused a moment, trying to process what had happened.

Had he done something wrong? No, this has happened before. Sherlock liked to stand behind John and look down at him, which often ended with Sherlock or him being covered in tea or whatever John had decided to eat. He would wince and nearly curse when the tea burned him, but stay still and simply waltz off after John had cleaned the meal's remnants from his clothing. But today, he was shifting from foot to foot as John wiped at his shirt and his expression was nearly pained. The way he stormed off worried John too. He hadn't hurt him or anything, only cleaned him up a bit then felt his face to gauge the temperature of his skin.

Maybe he had imposed on a boundary? Sherlock was always iffy about being touched, and someone being so close to his face could've been a bit much. John sighed, shaking his head. He couldn't remember ever knowing someone this confusing.

Sherlock stripped off the shirt and allowed the hot, steamy air of the bathroom to overtake him. He breathed in deeply, trying to calm his racing mind. He quickly shed his clothes and stepped beneath the heavy stream of water, not minding the burning of the overly hot water. He wanted to close his mind off, just stop thinking. But all he could see was John. He could just imagine John here with him, his tanned skin slick with water and glistening and his face flushed and oh god he wanted him. Sherlock could picture John stripping, well defined muscles strong against his skin. He could feel himself running his hands down John's body and pulling him close and whispering obscene things in his ear. Sherlock's hand traveled down past his hips and to his cock, palming the erection. A broken moan escaped past his lips and he hoped that John had the telly on louder than necessary. Images of John on his knees, John moaning and spread beneath Sherlock, _or dear god,_ John straddling Sherlock, his face close and his lips swollen and practically _begging to be kissed._ Sherlock stroked himself, imagining that it was John's hand, the skin rough and calloused from years out in Afghanistan and handling weapons. His breath was ragged and he groaned as his thoughts became overrun with the doctor.

_'J-John…"_ Sherlock whispered, biting his lower lip roughly. John was so perfect, so bloody attractive and his face being flushed, his chest rising quickly as he moaned and muttered and cursed and begged to be fucked was overpowering and Sherlock had to use his other hand to lean against the tile wall of the shower to avoid falling to his knees.

_John screaming his name, John spreading his legs just a little bit more, John pushing Sherlock down roughly and seizing his mouth and tearing the shirt from his body with wild abandon, John's mouth hovering above his by only mere centimeters and…_ Sherlock's breath hitched and he moaned, his chest vibrating with the deep octave as he came. He breathed his flatmate's name again as his bind went incredibly blank. The water washed it all away as he stood back beneath the stream, sighing and catching his breath. He hated himself a bit more, for being a spineless coward who couldn't speak his own feelings and resorted to pleasuring himself to fabricated images while he moaned not so subtly. He quickly washed his hair and body, then turned off the shower and stepped out. The air felt chilly on his skin and he wrapped a plush towel around his hips as his hand cleared the steam from the mirror.

'Bloody mess…" Sherlock murmured as he looked at himself. His cheeks were still flushed, and a complete stranger would have thought he had just been very intimate just by glancing at him. The detective splashed cool water on his face, rubbing the liquid into his skin as if it could take away how dirty he felt. Sherlock turned off the faucet, and took a deep breath as he left the bathroom. He was very fortunate that his bedroom was right up the hall, and the detective hurried into the room. After closing the door, he leaned against it and hoped to slow his mind a bit. He felt high from the experience in the shower, but absolutely filthy at the same time. It was indecent, pleasuring himself to a man who only thought of him as a friend; and best friend no less! Sherlock sighed and went to his closet, opening the doors and gazing inside. Today was a day to be lazy, as the both of them had slept till past noon and the fatigue of the last case was still present. He rifled through his clothes, mumbling irritably until settling on a cream colored shirt and charcoal colored trousers. Sherlock pulled on a pair of briefs than his pants and buttoned the shirt up with amazing efficiency. He tucked the top into his pants and turned to gaze in the long, slim mirror.

_"Bony…"_ he thought, moving his limbs and adjusting his posture to inspect his body. He was tall and lanky and he absolutely hated it. As a child and teen, he was often taunted for his lack of muscle and fat. _"Not that it mattered…"_ he thought again, more bitterly this time. He had always replied with snarky comebacks and and a clipped voice, which only served to get him beat up. Even now, he could recall going home with a bloody nose or black eye more than 15 times, not to mention the one incident where the aggressor had even broke his arm. Sherlock pondered why people took out their anger and frustration in such a way. Many of the kids he had known disliked him greatly, whether it was for his intelligence making them feel inadequate or his attitude and personality simply irking them.

_"Whatever it was,"_ Sherlock mused. _"their way of handling it was childish and petty."_ He walked to his dresser and pulled a pair of socks out, then perched on the end of the bed and began to put them on. _"But I am also childish and petty, am I not?"_ he questioned, thinking about his current situation. Any person could simply say it and let the statement be out there, and Sherlock himself could word it as to make John think it was poetry straight from William Shakespeare, However, when the words felt as though they finally escape. they were instead clogged up in his vocal chords and smashed down until the next inconvenient time.

"Emotions…" Sherlock scoffed to himself as he rose from the bed. Looking in the mirror once more, he squared his shoulders and raised his chin.

Sharing a cup of tea with your flatmate had never been so difficult.


	3. Chapter 3

"The guy was found in a closed room, no injuries, doors locked and windows boarded and painted shut." Lestrade held up the tape as Sherlock and John walked beneath it and followed him to the scene. The detective entered the room warily, inspecting every element closely.

_Man in his late 50's, carrying around few extra pounds. Brown hair..._

John watched as the detective ventured close to the body, his mind clearly racing. He sighed as Sherlock got down on his hands and knees and lifted the body slightly.

"John, come here." he murmured, waving slightly. His face was twisted together as he inspected the man. John walked over, kneeling down. "What is it?" he asked. Sherlock was staring at one thing in particular, his mouth pursed in thought.

"His eyes, John. Look at them."

John shifted his weight so that he was on both knees and moved closer to the body. Sherlock backed away, staring down his flatmate. John grumbled under his breath as he turned the man slightly, getting a good look. He hated how Sherlock would stand over him like that; it was creepy. Well no, that was an exaggeration. But it was uncomfortable to have anyone standing behind him really. Especially when he wasn't at full height.

"His eyes are..." John leaned closed, squinting as he focused on details. "He's blind." John pulled back, turning around to look at Sherlock. His flatmate looked bothered, his eyebrows furrowed and mouth pulled into a tight line.

"Yes, what else?" his voice was clipped as though he was annoyed. John scowled and looked closer, sighing as he did. Honestly, if Sherlock was going to ask him to look, then act as if he were a nuisance, they were going to have a bit of a conversation.

"Chlorine." He pulled away quickly, the stench almost overpowering. John paused, expecting Sherlock to help him up like he normally did. Instead, the detective turned around and began on his deduction.

"The man is in his late 50's, most likely 57. He's blind, _amazing_ you missed that one." Sherlock's voice was dripping with sarcasm and Lestrade rolled his eyes as Sherlock continued. "He also smells strongly of chlorine, a signal that he was drowned in a pool." Sherlock turned to Lestrade. "This house is old, yes? Been passed down for generations and rooms have been closed off as time went on. However, the keys to each door were kept." He walked over to the room's door and looked at the keyhole.

"Here, you can see a clear break in the dust line. So, after drowning the man, our killer grabbed the key, unlocked the door and deposited the body, then locked it and left." He turned back and pointed at the man. "His family were frequent visitors, often times here to assist him. Why would a blind man go swimming? That's most likely the question that you're all asking yourselves. The answer is that obviously, he didn't. Who was here last night with him?" Sherlock had begun pacing and was scowling, a sign that he was growing impatient.

"Uh, his sister and his brother...oh, his daughter too." Lestrade told him, shifting on his feet. "You think it was one of them? Sorry Sherlock, but we already questioned them and they all cleared."

"53 percent of the time, you and these idiots either miss cues in body language, or simply don't ask the right questions."

Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and began to pull him from the room, pushing past a protesting DI.

"Don't go question them again, Sherlock! Have some compassion!" he called as the pair descended the stairs. Sherlock pulled John out of the building with yank and swirl of his coat. They hurried away from the crime scene, only stopping when John dragged his feet and struggled against Sherlock's grip.

"Let me go!" he exclaimed, pulling his arm back. John stared him down, his mouth in a tight frown. "You were incredibly rude to Lestrade! Go back and apologize." John found himself infuriated when Sherlock let out a dry chuckle.

"Apologize? For what, John? All I did was state the obvious truth!" he responded, the deep baritone of his voice rising. John clenched his fists.

"For being a pompous dick! Just because you're some super genius who sees, oh, each and every little fucking detail, doesn't meant that you can talk to people like that!" John replied in exasperation.

"I am not a super genius." Sherlock said through clenched teeth. "The rest of the human race is just made up of boring, babbling morons!"

"Yeah..." John said, nodding his head. "And I'm part of it."

"John, don't act offended! You know that I-"

"Oh no, Sherlock...I don't know! Because after all, I'm just a boring, babbling moron!" Each adjective was heavily pronounced and Sherlock winced slightly as John repeated him. The ex army doctor shook his head and chuckled slightly, then began to walk away.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called to him. John didn't acknowledge that he had even opened his mouth, and Sherlock sighed as the black coat and dark jeans that signaled John got smaller and smaller. Soon, he was out of sight, yet the detective could still feel his anger in the air. Sherlock too began to walk, hailing a cab as soon as the main road was beneath his feet.

John was fuming as he walked away from the outskirts of the crime scene, away from that street, away from Sherlock. God, he didn't understand him sometimes. _"One minute he's waiting on me and the next he's calling me a moron..."_ he thought angrily. It was odd, how Sherlock had been acting lately. Ever since they stayed for the late case, which was nearly two months ago, he had been peculiar.

"First he stalks off when I accidentally brush against him, then he won't even let me make a damn cup of tea..." John whispered to himself as he walked down the street, being quiet enough so that he didn't draw attention to himself. Though he was angry, a part of his mind was busy worrying, telling him that perhaps something bad was happening. John ignored it and evened out his breathing as he stopped by a small cafe stand and ordered a coffee. Somehow, his mind had led him straight to the park and a breeze blew through, ruffling his hair and chilling his spine. His leg twitched uncomfortably, a sign that he was putting himself under too much stress. John sighed again as he paid and collected his coffee, then sat at a bench beneath a tree.

The leaves were changing colors and falling onto the pavement, then being crushed by human feet and cars wheels. John leaned into the bench, enjoying the warmth that the coffee brought to his frigid hands. Okay, _maybe_ he had overreacted. To John, taking a break from Sherlock was the best choice, as it allowed him to blow off some steam before confronting the man. The last thing he wanted was for them to have a huge argument and let Sherlock stalk off in anger, then do something stupid. He was oblivious enough as it is, so being in a mood would only make him more vulnerable. John stayed on the bench for awhile, quietly drinking his coffee and watching people pass by. He planned out what he would say and how he would talk to Sherlock, and if the man got back on his nerves, how not to haul off and punch him. Then with a sigh, he stood up from the bench and tossed his empty cup away.

* * *

Sherlock paced around the flat, looking at the clock every few minutes. He had to time this perfectly, otherwise it wouldn't work.

_John would take 15 minutes to walk to the park, 4 minutes to locate a coffee stand and buy a cup, then sit for anywhere between 10-30 minutes. The walk home was 10 minutes, 15 if traffic was heavy and he had to find other ways to cross the streets. That means that he could be gone for anywhere between 49 to 64 minutes._

This left Sherlock to figure out the exact timing,which he wasn't finding easy in this state of tension and anxiety. It was 6:16, so 53 minutes had passed since John stormed off.

"14 minutes to prepare everything..." Sherlock murmured as he went into the kitchen and put the kettle on to boil. He would make John a cup of tea the way he liked it; milk and one sugar. Then, Sherlock would put out his favorite biscuits, which were the chocolate ones that had to be from Tesco's, because the ones that the shop sold down the street tasted "odd". Sherlock would prepare his tea, set up the biscuits and place himself in his chair then patiently wait for John to come back so that they could a have a proper conversation.

_"But wait, John would find it unusual that I had made him tea and put out some biscuits. That could make him uneasy, thus making any developments in out potential relationship even slimmer..."_ Sherlock thought, drumming his fingers on the counter.

_"I can prepare him tea with the cover that I had already made some for myself, yet knew what time he was be back. The biscuits would be far too much in his opinion however, since I would not eat them myself."_

As Sherlock went about rethinking his plan, the door opened and the cool autumn breeze whipped through, chilling the flat. John removed his coat and hung it up on the rack, then begrudgingly shuffled his feet over to the kitchen where he found Sherlock.

"Ah," his flatmate said upon noticing his arrival. "Fancy a cup?" Sherlock asked, motioning to the kettle.

"Uh yeah. Thanks." John's eyes stayed fixed on Sherlock for a moment before he turned and walked into the living room, sitting in his chair. It struck him as odd, how Sherlock was offering to make him a cup. Hell, most of the time Sherlock wouldn't even make his own tea! He insisted that the way John made it was different, that it was better. However, he also insisted that the information on how to make it that way was useless and he needn't clog up with mind palace with such trivial matters.

"John." the deep baritone of Sherlock's voice snapped him out of his thoughts and back to reality. He stood next to John's chair holding the cup of tea out to him.

"Ah, thanks." John said again, taking the drink gingerly. The mesmerizing aroma of oolong tea flowed to him as he took a sip and allowed the warm liquid to overcome his taste buds. He looked up to see that Sherlock had sat down and was shifting rather uncomfortably. A silence fell between them again as Sherlock grew still and John drank his tea, making the abnormally good cup last.

"Uh hey, about earlier..." John began. Sherlock's attention snapped to him and the ex army doctor's voice faltered. "Um, well, I guess I kind of overreacted. You're a great big bag of dicks sometimes, but you're not the worst friend ever." John looked away and barely opened his mouth to speak again. "You're the best friend I've ever had..." his voice was so quiet that Sherlock's acute hearing jut barely caught it. The detective could feel his heart swell, and the words poured out of his mouth.

"John, I l-"

**_STOP!_**

Sherlock bit his tongue hard and made the words come to a complete stop as his mind screeched.

**_Wrong, wrong, wrong! You cannot do this now! Stop right there, abort mission, abort mission!_**

It felt as though sirens were blaring inside his head, half of them signaling that he hadn't confessed and the remaining fraction berating his idiocy and panicking.

"Uh, Sherlock? What is it?" John asked slowly, leaning forward and staring peculiarly at his flatmate. Sherlock struggled to bring his breathing and heartbeat back to a normal level, all while trying to figure out how to continue the sentence.

"John, I...I'm ah...sorry. I apologize for my behavior earlier." he managed, stuttering slightly. John leaned back in the chair, looking shocked.

"Wow, I didn't expect that one." he remarked, making Sherlock frown.

"Do not make me revoke my previous statement." the detective replied, a scowl playing at his features. John rolled his eyes and grinned slightly, causing the corners of Sherlock's mouth to pull up a bit.

"But seriously Sherlock, you should probably apologize to Greg too. After all you did call him and his whole department idiots."

"They are idiots."

"But _he_ isn't." John leaned forward again, resting his elbows on his thighs. "I agree, his division can be pretty moronic, but he is a damn good Detective Inspector and you know it."

Sherlock sighed and grabbed his phone, unlocking the device. His pale eyes darted across the screen as his finger found the needed icon.

"What are you doing?"

"Apologizing." Sherlock muttered, turning the phone on its side for easier typing. His slender fingers hit the keys quickly and within 30 seconds, the message was sent and delivered.

"What did you say?" John inquired. Sherlock's eyes flitted upwards to quickly recall the message at its full capacity.

"I fear one day the sheer amount of stupidity and dullness of your department will begin to affect you."

John sighed and rolled his eyes, not the least surprised to hear something like that. Sherlock had apologized once already, he _definitely_ was not going to do it again. Sherlock smirked slightly as he met John's eyes, managing to draw out a small smile.

"You can be a tosser, you know that?"

"Mm, you tell me at least once a week." Sherlock replied, earning a laugh in return. "I do, don't I..." John murmured. Sherlock's phone buzzed in his pocket and he retrieved it again, looking at the new text.

"What does it say?"

"Armageddon must be coming because I'm pretty sure that was a apology."

The phone vibrated again.

"A half assed attempt, but still an apology."

John snorted and began to laugh, only making Sherlock smile. The detective could feel his heart swell and endorphins be released into his bloodstream at the sight of John laughing. He had such a wonderful sound, deep and sincere, but cracking with high pitched when something was particularly humorous. Next to his voice, John's laugh was probably his favorite sound in the universe.

John eventually asked Sherlock about today's case, and sat there as he went off explaining everything, such a who the murderer was, the motive and little specific details that managed to string every piece of evidence together in an organized plan. John praised him lightly when Sherlock pointed out something that neither him nor Scotland Yard would've ever seen and coaxed a pleased smile out of the man.

"Planning on telling Lestrade tomorrow?" he asked when Sherlock concluded.

"Of course. He'll go off at our dear Anderson and Sally..." A calculating smile spread across his face and John felt himself crack a smile.

"I wouldn't _dare_ miss it, John."


	4. Chapter 4

His lips ghosted John's ear before nipping and sucking lightly. John moaned and pulled Sherlock closer, their mouths connected in a messy, heated kiss. The ex army doctor grinded up against Sherlock's hips and a low, rumbling moan bubbled up from the detective, his voice making the blood rush to John's groin.

"Oh god, you're magnificent..." Sherlock trailed kisses down John's jawline and neck, stopping at his left shoulder. Sherlock's lips brushed against the raised skin, blowing warm breaths against the scar. John moaned again, then gasped when Sherlock suddenly bit down on the skin near his collarbone, running his tongue and sucking at the mark. He pulled away to inspect the bright red mark and smirked as he began to kiss John again, this time on his torso. John felt short of breath as Sherlock's lips dipped below his hip bones and pressed against the cotton fabric of his boxers.

"Ah fuck! Oh god, Sherlock-"

John's eyes flew open as the harsh beeping of his alarm clock snapped him out of his dream and into reality. He hit a button on the device and the sound stopped, leaving him in silence. John sighed loudly and cursed when he realized that he has half hard, and had wet pants.

_"I'm getting too old for this..."_ John thought bitterly, wishing that his predicament would disappear. It was 6 in the morning and he just had a bloody wet dream about Sherlock.

Oh fuck.

He just had an erotic dream about _Sherlock!_ John covered his face with his hands in shame, not wanting to believe that he had just dreamt about his best friend giving him a blowjob.

"Why me..." John whined quietly, shaking his head. This wasn't the first of these types of feelings, but it was the first time he had climaxed over the thought of Sherlock just-

_"No, no, no! Stop thinking about it!"_ his mind screamed, panicking. Oh lord, what if Sherlock heard something? He had once remarked on the fact that he could hear John thrashing about in his nightmares and John knew for a fact he was relatively quiet then. But in a bloody wet dream where he was free and so painfully arous-

"Nope." John said aloud as he sat up and hauled his feet over the side of the bed. "No." he told himself, shaking his head. He couldn't keep thinking about this kind of thing. Maybe it was just that he was cooped up constantly with Sherlock, and, he also hadn't gone on any dates in close to 4 months.

This was bad. Oh, this was very terrible. It had been 4 months?! John let out a defeated whine and held his head. Oh, he was in deep, deep trouble. Sure, maybe it was that he wasn't as attracted to women as he once was. That could totally be it. But still, why was he...lusting after his flatmate, his best friend?!

_"Sherlock is attractive."_ his mind stated. John ignored it and continued to fret and think about if there a way out of this situation.

_"Sherlock is extremely attractive and you know it. You want him. You need him."_ that small part of his brain nagged and prodded again, causing John to cry out in anguish. Okay, no clinic today. He would call in sick and spend the day with Sherlock, just to prove that this was some kind of incredibly weird infatuation and nothing more.

"It will pass." John told himself, scowling when that small part acted up again and oh so kindly, begged to differ.

John willed himself to get out of bed and get dressed, knowing that Sherlock was probably already awake. Instead, he found the living room empty and void of any detective. This was rather odd, seeing as how Sherlock was up around 5 nearly every morning, saying that "sleep was only needed in dire situations when there was nothing better to do". John shrugged and went into the kitchen, starting the kettle and inspecting the bread that was left in the bag. He grumbled upon seeing mold and cursed, knowing for a fact that Sherlock was supposed to have gone shopping the day before. He sighed and leaned against the counter after picking up the newspaper that had been left discarded. A front page article about a new building, some little one about a nearby school, and a few meager things here and there. As he read about the school, the noise of a door opening met his ears and John looked up.

"Ah, looks like someone needed sl…."

Sherlock wasn't wearing any clothes. Right now. In front of him.

"I...um…"

"Sherlock! Put some bloody clothes on!" John screeched, hurling the newspaper at him. The detective caught it and held it in front of his body. He was bright red in the face and scurried away back into his room, leaving John with his mouth gaping wide open in disbelief.

_"It is 6 in the sodding morning, I just **dreamt** about him, and now he just so **happens** to be bloody nude?!"_ John couldn't believe his luck this morning and shook his head, groaning.

_"Why me…?"_

* * *

Sherlock stood back in his bedroom, clutching the newspaper. He was silent, and couldn't seem to accept that John had just seen him naked. The ex army doctor never listened to his alarm clock, always getting up anywhere from 30-45 minutes after it. And Sherlock didn't walk around naked _usually_, but he had forgotten his dressing gown out in a basket in the living room after Mrs. Hudson had washed it for him. Sherlock shook his head and felt laughter begin to bubble up from the sheer ridiculousness of the situation. He opened his mouth to breathe, and the sound began to flood out, filling up the room and floating out into the hallway.

"I can hear you laughing!" John called, he too breaking down in a fit of laughter. Sherlock snorted rather loudly, only making John laugh harder.

"Shut up, you tosser!"

"You screamed like a young girl!"

"Fuck off!"

They stayed like that for a few minutes, calling to each other from behind doors and down halls. John had pulled out a chair and sat down, while Sherlock leaned against the wall trying to catch his breath. Their laughter dwindled down until the flat was quiet, and John let out one last defeated chuckle.

"Tea?"

"If you wouldn't mind." Sherlock replied, finally willing himself to go over to his closet and select clothes. It was still early, and he had planned on simply lounging about until something popped up. It had been nearly a week and a half since the case of the blind man who had been drowned, and the lashing that Sally and Anderson had received was still fresh in his mind. So, it could be said that at the moment, Sherlock was very content. Yet, the voice in the back of his brain nagged at him and managed to crumble the grin that had been plastered there by John.

_"Go and find a case. Stop being lazy. You don't deserve to be content."_

"Be quiet." Sherlock whispered tensely as he ripped a shirt off its hanger. He pulled the garment on roughly and hurried over to his dresser to slip on a pair of boxers. As he returned back to his closet to put on trousers, the kettle whistling caught his attention and he paused as the sound of water being poured into a cup and the fridge being opened floated to him. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed. He really didn't deserve this kind of thing. Bliss, contentment or whatever it may be called. John didn't share his feelings, that much was obvious. His views were not limited to women, granted, but he _certainly_ was not looking at Sherlock with anything other than friendship, which Sherlock thought he should abandon. After all, the detective himself was not a good friend. Despite what John had told him after their row that week and a half ago, he still didn't quite believe. In fact, he was sure it was the other way around. John was the best, and only close friend he had ever had. And that's what made it so damn _hard_ about telling John how he felt. Even Sherlock knew that keeping something like feelings of extreme affection, oh who was he kidding, feelings of _love_ to himself would only make them simmer and bubble up until he one day accidentally blurted them out, most likely at the worst time possible.

Then again, was it ever easy to talk about feelings and emotions? Keeping them bottled up and neatly tucked away in his mind palace had never failed him until now. Until John.

"Sherlock, your tea is going to get cold!" John called to him, snapping Sherlock from his trance. The detective quickly finished dressing himself and pattered out of his room and and into the kitchen where a still steaming mug sat. John knew that Sherlock preferred his tea hot, and by hot, he meant to the point where it was still burning his tongue and throat as he drank. Sherlock smelled it briefly before taking a sip. Though John was always very meticulous and mindful with money, he never hesitated to buy the best tea he could find. Call it a guilty, and slightly costly pleasure, but Sherlock made a point never to remark upon it. After all, it made John happy, and a happy John was Sherlock's guilty pleasure.

He picked up the mug and walked into the living room where John sat back in his chair, typing away at his laptop. Sherlock leaned on the back of the chair, watching as John's pointer fingers slowly punched each key.

"Not writing up the case?" Sherlock murmured, sipping lazily at his tea. John's eyes flicked back to Sherlock above him and felt his face heat slightly from the deep pitch of his voice.

"Did that two days ago. Don't you usually check my blog every day?" John asked, smiling slightly. Sherlock scoffed, but the corner of his mouth did quirk up a bit. "Hardly, John. I am only prompted to do so when I feel as though correcting your spelling and grammatical errors, along with replying to any comments concerning myself." he retorted, making John roll his eyes.

"Of course, Sherlock. I know that." he replied, looking back to the screen. Sherlock lingered by a few more seconds, fighting a strong impulse to wrap his arms around John and press a kiss to his head, or run his fingers through his hair. The detective was swift in moving to his own chair, where he fished out his laptop from in between the cushions and pulled it open. Sherlock opened the internet window and paused. Was he really going to use the internet for relationship advice? How could it be a reliable source, after all, none of these people understood his situation. A general guide, or some long list of tips couldn't possibly help him out.

_(6. Make eye contact from across the room; smile.)_

Sherlock glanced up from his computer and stared at John, inspecting each little detail about him. _"__Sandy blonde hair, flecks of grey have increased slightly from when we first met, still ruffled from sleeping. Skin is still significantly tan, however the tone had lightened considerably. Long eyelashes, blue-grey eyes that are looking at me-"_

Sherlock quickly smiled and made his vision flit down to the computer screen, slightly embarrassed that he had been caught, most likely for more than a few seconds. Okay, that was not a tip to be used again. Although, now he did have more information on John to place into his section in his Mind Palace.

_(9. Find a common enemy: another party guest, an annoying guy at the bar, a broken jukebox, the lack of pizza joints in this part of town. It's you two against the world.)_

This was already done. Mycroft was certainly a common enemy, though John did manage to tolerate him a bit more. After his poor excuse for a brother, Anderson and Donovan were certainly there. In this case however, John's fuse was far shorter with their taunts and jeers, and wouldn't hesitate to go off, or even get physical with one of them. Sherlock felt the overwhelming emotion of gratitude and happiness wash over him just thinking about the one incident where John had hauled off and punched Anderson in the nose.

_"Emotions..."_ Sherlock found himself thinking. They were strange things, yet most times painfully boring. Sherlock only ever played with them, using different ones to gain access to a crime scene or certain cadaver, or to wiggle his way into the mind of someone else. But John, oh John made him feel without trying. If Sherlock was being honest with himself, it terrified him.

All these sudden feelings and thoughts that he couldn't control, the impulse, for the first time in his life, to be near someone, to protect them, to let them know how _bloody fascinating and perfect they were._

Some files on his childhood came to mind and he closed his eyes as he sorted through them. He of course kept only the important information fresh and ready for thought, while meager, little tidbits required more work to reach.

_Tests from the time I was 2, amazing motor skills, wide vocabulary and ability to speak. Outspoken, Mummy and Father hated it. Mycroft gone to boarding school, not home often, I'm alone at the house. Alone all the time. I am ahead 2 grades, still smarter than most kids in my grade. Begins to deduce, kids at school are fascinated at first, soon grow scared and angry. They call me names, I sit alone and have no friends. Still outspoken, young hands getting into everything, Father growing angry, Mummy growing desperate. Father hit me for the first time at age 4..._

Suddenly, Sherlock felt sick to his stomach and he puts those files away lightning quick and draws in a deep breath. His childhood is not something to be thinking about. The past is the past and he would not like to relive it.

Sherlock's screen catches his eye again and he begins skimming through the tips again. He stops when John gets up, stretches and groans.

_"Shoulder is obviously hurting a bit, so he's under stress. Not enough to make him use painkillers, but still bothersome. He's looking for the hot compress that went in the trash after I used it in an experiment."_ Sherlock thought to himself as John tickled through a small cabinet. A tip caught his eye and Sherlock read it quickly.

_(11. Say their name! People love to hear other's say their name, especially when it's someone they're equally interested in.)_

Sherlock was practically buzzing with excitement from the thought of John returning his feelings, and he looked up at his flatmate.

"Threw it out, John! All functions were rendered useless on it after my experiment." Sherlock told him earning a groan in reply. The shorter man rotated his shoulder and winced, and his expression showed no change from Sherlock using his name.

"Try a hot shower, John. Any relief that you would get from the compress will be achieved while in the shower." he said, and John sighed, but nodded in agreement. The ex army doctor trudged away to the shower, and Sherlock huffed in his chair. These tips were absolute rubbish! All they've gotten him so far was an odd look from John, some memories that left a foul taste in his mouth, and now an empty sitting room.

_"How do people do this?"_

* * *

John settled beneath the steady stream of water and sighed; Sherlock was right, this was helping his shoulder.

"It's his fault..." John muttered under his breath. Technically, it was the growing attraction and fear of being found out that was causing this, but John was trying to ignore that.

And John was also failing very miserably at it.

As he tried to hurry through his shower, his mind kept on being flooded with images of a certain detective. For godsake, he had seen the man nude today, and you can't just forget something like that. And what's worse, Sherlock was standing over him earlier, and his voice was so low and quiet, it was almost a growl. Oh, what John would've gave to be able to turn around, grab Sherlock by those expensive suit lapels and just _kiss_ him. Then those pale eyes, looking up at him from beneath dark curls, only to avert the gave upon noticing that they were caught looking. Finally, the way Sherlock called his name, with it's low pitch and inflections and perfection. It was enough to make anyone's mind wonder.

And god, did John let his.

_Beautiful neck, good enough to kiss. Lean chest, stunning collar bones and shoulders, a canvas to show your ownership of him. His body covering your's those long, slim fingers stroking and running over you, over your chest and lower, his gorgeous mouth with that cupid's bow to die for moaning, begging for more, making you beg for more..._

John was going to punch himself in the face. He was going to lift his arm, make a fist and throw it across his jaw.

_"What am I, a bloody teenager?! Have some decency!"_ John screamed internally, then laid his head against the tile wall rather hard. Okay, maybe he shouldn't punch himself. If any of the strength he really wanted to put in it showed through, he could actually hurt himself. Which in turn could mean him slipping in this shower, making a ruckus, and having Sherlock throw open the door to check and see what happened. Definitely not going to let that happen.

So, John took hold of the tap and turned the water as cold as it could go then stood very miserably underneath it.

Damn his libido and his attractive, astonishing and absolutely mad flatmate.

Damn them straight to the hell of a warzone.

* * *

_for future reference, john will probably neglect to have decency _

_sherlock will have even less decency _


	5. Chapter 5

If there was one thing John hated, it was people complaining over petty things.

Moreover, he hated _Sherlock_ complaining over petty things. Whether it was over the lack of milk in the refrigerator, or the different kinds of talk shows that were frequently on, it never failed to irk John. No matter how much he adored that silky baritone voice that resonated off the walls with all its fascinating inflections, the moment he used it to utter words of minor self pity and false woe, John's parade was caught in a flash flood.

So when he left the bathroom one late morning after showering, hearing the whining of his fully grown flatmate who seemed to be masquerading as a young child with his tone and words was definitely not at the top of his list.

"John, there's nothing to watch on the telly! It's all absolute, brain numbing rubbish!" he groaned, slumping down low in his chair. "And there hasn't been a case in over a week! An entire week, John!" Sherlock was practically halfway off the chair now, his face in a pout. Most times, John would have found that expression cute, or a tad bit endearing. But now, he could feel intolerance and annoyance bubbling up beneath his skin as his friend continued on.

"And there is absolutely nothing in the fridge! For someone who eats roughly 2,150 calories per day, one would expect that we have a constant stream of food, but I suppose not everything is how it should be-"

"We're going shopping!"

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut, much to John's hidden delight. His voice may be heavenly, but the words that had been coming out of it were what the ex army doctor called hellish.

"_We're_ going shopping...?" Sherlock asked delicately, as if any wrong pronunciation could offend his flatmate. "Don't you mean you are?"

John sighed slightly as he placed his hands on his hips.

"_No,_ Sherlock. We're, as in we are." John jabbed his thumb at the door. "_You're_ coming with me."

This declaration brought on a new wave of complaints, complete with Sherlock moaning in a way that John's body would have taken in the wrong way if his brain wasn't currently focused on the thought of shopping, and making his flatmate help out for once.

"Absolutely insufferable! Shopping holds no interest in my mind, so even considering going is out of the question." he replied curtly, finally allowing his body to slump away from the chair and onto a heap upon the floor.

It is a mystery, only caught on camera by one of Mycroft's expertly hidden bugs, how John had managed to haul the taller man up, force him to put on his shoes, coat and scarf, and go on out of the flat with him. All that the general public saw was two men walk down the streets and into a nearby Tesco, the tall wiry one scowling, and the shorter, more muscular one wearing a slightly worn, annoyed look that looked like it should belong to a parent who had dealt with a small child.

John picked up two baskets, handing one to his flatmate. Sherlock continued to scowl, but his hard expression softened slightly as John's hand brushed against his.

"Okay..." John murmured, standing on his toes slightly as he looked at the list that Sherlock held close to his eyes. The detective tucked it into his pocket and took a sharp turn, leaving John to be caught in a influx of shoppers.

"Ah, Sherlock! Wait a second!" John pushed through the people as he tried to catch up with his flatmate, who's long legs provided strides that far outmatched his own shorter ones. John clamped a hand down on Sherlock's wrist and the man stooped abruptly, causing John to collide with him. The milk moved dangerously close to the edge of the basket and would have fallen if not for John reaching around Sherlock to hold it steady.

"Be careful..." John muttered, straightening himself again. Sherlock seemed anxious, glancing around to see if he had somehow caused a disturbance. The rest of the shoppers milling around took no notice of the pair's antics, continuing on with their own shopping. John straightened himself and Sherlock renewed his regal like posture as they continued down the aisle, stopping once here and there to select a few items. John had turned around more than once to find that his detective was missing, either in the last aisle looking at a particular product, or a few ahead of him, already tackling down the fairly hefty list.

"What do you want for dinner?" Sherlock asked as he and John finished up in another section. The ex army doctor shrugged, giving off the body language of someone who couldn't be bothered with the choice. Sherlock raised an eyebrow and stopped John, who frowned slightly.

"What is it?" John questioned, puzzled as to why Sherlock's gaze was unwavering as he wore a little knowing smirk.

"You want obviously want pasta, but are keeping it to yourself, since me asking you made you think that I had a preference." John opened his mouth to ask Sherlock how he knew, but was soon cut off as he started up again. "Every time we passed any type of it, you kept glancing over and licked your lips a few times, signaling that you have a craving for it. However, you are avoiding buying it due to the fact that it is more than you would like to spend, and you worry about not having enough cash on hand." Sherlock pulled out his credit card quickly, halting any words that John wished to say.

"You are also forgetting that I too, will be consuming the products purchased today, thus meaning that we will split the total bill." Sherlock finished with a curt nod as he took John's hand and pulled him back a few aisles where the boxes of pasta lay on shelves. The detective's touch lingered a few seconds, then was gone with the flourish of his coat as he plopped down into a crouching position to survey the different types of pasta. Holding up a few of the different brands and types, then looking over his shoulder for confirmation, the detective deposited a few boxes into his basket and rose to join his friend again.

"Oh, don't give me that look, John. You're not the only one who has deemed refined starch worthy of consumption."

They finished up the shopping soon after that, hauling their baskets over to the self checkout area. John sent an icy glare at the machine, making Sherlock's mouth perk up at the corners in amusement. They amazingly made it through the process without any problems, for which John was grateful for. A faulty pin and chip machine that spewed an automated voice at him would've surely put a damper on his good mood.

"Should we get a cab?" John asked as they left the store, their arms filled with plastic bags. Sherlock scoffed, taking long strides away and forcing John to jog in order to catch up with him. The ex army doctor grumbled slightly as they walked, but his words of minor discomfort faded away as they both fell silent, though it was one of comfort and ease.

_"That went a lot better than I had expected..."_ John thought to himself as he half listened to the clatter of shoes on the pavement. _"I expected him to be at least a bit insufferable."_ John felt a small smile creep onto his face as he replayed the content look that his flatmate had worn for most of the outing.

However, John was still puzzled as to why Sherlock had stopped and froze so suddenly when he grabbed him. After all, it wasn't like the motion of holding one's wrist was an uncommon occurrence for them. Even holding hands while one pulled the other somewhere was fairly normal. But Sherlock had been on a no touch basis as of recently, hadn't he? Anytime John accidentally brushed him, he would make a show of jerking away as if burnt. He didn't neglect to do it at crime scenes, which of course brought on sniggers and taunts from Anderson, Donovan and any other poor sap who didn't quite understand that John would not hesitate to call them out.

Or maybe use a _little_ bit of force.

John glanced over at Sherlock, and noted that the detective's gaze flicked forward quickly. He didn't seem to pay John any attention as they turned onto their street, the flat coming into view. John reached into his coat pocket, feeling for his rather meager key ring. His fingers didn't brush against metal like they normally would and his eyes grew wide with surprise and annoyance.

"Oh buggering shit..." he murmured, stopping and clenching his hands into fists. Sherlock slowed to a stop, turning to look at John.

"What is it?" he asked, smirking slightly. John failed to hear the playful edge to Sherlock's voice and scowled at him.

"My keys! I lost my bloody keys!" John exclaimed, groaning angrily. His flatmate merely stared at him, the smirk growing slowly into a smile. John scowled, glaring at him.

"What? What are you smiling about?" he questioned, adjusting the bags in his arms that had begun to grow uncomfortable. Sherlock reached into his own coat pocket, and grinned as his slender fingers fished out the ring that held three keys. "Is this what you're looking for?"

John made a noise in exasperation as he snatched the keys from Sherlock and held them tightly.

"When did you take them?" John asked as they completed the walk to the flat and stood on the doorstep. "I didn't," Sherlock rolled his shoulders, which had become a tad bit stiff from carrying bags. "You dropped them in aisle 8 and I simply picked them up. I wanted to see how long it would take you to notice."

John shook his head and let out a good natured sigh as he unlocked and opened the door, then led Sherlock up the stairs. John slowed as he noticed that the door was open a tad, and whispered to Sherlock.

"Look." The detective stepped ahead of John, his footsteps silent as he gently prodded open the door. An angry mangled noise left Sherlock's mouth as he swung the door open completely.

"What are _you_ doing here?" Sherlock's tone was smothered in annoyance as he locked eyes with the ginger haired man.

"And hello to you too, Sherlock." Mycroft replied, tilting his head slightly as he tried to exchange smiles with his brother. "Good afternoon, John." he said, rising up from Sherlock's chair and leaning against his umbrella slightly. Mycroft quirked and eyebrow as John nodded at the greeting, then nudged Sherlock towards the kitchen. The older Holmes watched as he was promptly ignored by the two flat owners while they put away their groceries, the pair directing playful jeers at each other once in a while and deciding where each product belonged. He also noted, that they seemed to be taking as long as possible with it.

Ignoring him? Yes.

Putting off any interaction as long as they could? Definitely.

But, the last item was eventually shut behind a cupboard and Mycroft smiled a bit more as each man had to acknowledge his presence.

"What is it, Mycroft?" Sherlock asked irritably, scowling. John glanced over at the politician, a tad bit curious as to what was so important that he felt the need to break into their flat.

"I have important matters to discuss with John."

"What are these matters?" Sherlock growled, his eyes narrowing. Mycroft looked past him and to the ex army doctor.

"That being said," Mycroft went on, ignoring his younger brother's question. "I request that we be alone for this conversation. It does not involve you, Sherlock."

The detective opened his mouth to protest, but was cut off by John. "Anything that you need to me can be said in front of your own brother, Mycroft."

Sherlock's heart fluttered in his chest at the tone of John's voice, but halted to a complete stop at the look Mycroft now shot his way.

_"I know how you feel about him, Sherlock. Must I say it right now?"_ Mycroft's gaze showed Sherlock that he was serious and wouldn't hesitate in confessing on his brother's behalf. Sherlock felt his throat burn with anger and he clenched his fists.

_"You wouldn't dare."_

_"Try me."_

John's lips parted to begin another statement, but stopped when Sherlock patted his arm lightly.

"It's quite alright, John. I planned on going out anyways." Sherlock lied through his teeth, smiling slightly at his flatmate to top it off.

"Sherlock, wait-"

The door closed quickly and loudly, the slam of wood against wood reverberating through the walls. John sighed and sent Mycroft a look as the man motioned for John to take a seat in his own chair.

_"He's related to the guy that pays half of the rent and still acts like he owns the place..."_ John thought angrily, huffing and plopping down in the broken in, yet well cushioned armchair. Mycroft sat down with a regal like grace, his fingers drumming on the umbrella's handle.

"Are you aware?"

"Aware of what?"

"Of what I am about to talk about." Mycroft leaned back in his brother's chair, his chin pointed slightly up. John crossed his arms and shook his head.

"No, Mycroft. Will you just get on with it already?!" John replied irritably, his eyes hard and unpleased with the fun Mycroft seemed to be having.

"As you wish, John." The politician grew quiet, closing his eyes as he thought how to word what he wanted to say, all without being outright about the true situation.

"It has come to my attention that my brother is having..._heart problems_," Mycroft's brain cheered at the choice of words. He wasn't going to trick John, but rather use what he would've called a code. Surely, the good doctor would understand after living with Sherlock for as long as he did.

"Heart problems?" John echoed, feeling a bit sick. Oh god, was this why he was acting so strange? He had a heart condition? Was it serious, and _oh god forbid, was it deadly?_ John's head felt like it was spinning and was baffled by how Mycroft could continue on seamlessly and still with the ghost of a smile.

"Quite so. To be honest with you, John, it's killing him."

Could three words crush his world? John was inclined to believe so as the words ran through his head. Emotions flooded his brain and mixed and pounded against each other painfully the more  
John though about it. Right now, he was feeling a bit livid. Mycroft was just sitting there, smiling while delivering news that his only sibling was dying. It was as if he didn't even care!

"Now, he has kept these problems out of your knowledge for approximately..." Mycroft paused as he tried to to remember when his CCTV cameras had first seen the phenomenon. Mycroft's mind flickered to how excited, even slightly astonished Mummy had been when he told her. "3 and a half months."

John felt his stomach drop and he had to lean back in his chair to avoid tumbling onto the ground. _"3 and a half months?"_ his mind repeated this over and over, trying to make the fact that his flatmate was dying, and had known for 3 and a half bloody months. John didn't even know what the heart condition was! His mind was searching every corner, trying to find any sliver of information that could calm him down, yet his medical knowledge seemed to be locked away in a dark, unreachable corner. John felt a lump grow in his throat and he forced himself to listen to what Mycroft was saying.

"He believed that he has been rather...hush hush about it, but anyone could see it by just paying attention." Mycroft brought himself up and out of the chair, leaning slightly on his umbrella. "I do believe he will be telling you about this soon. And _please_ John, do not press the matter before then. Everything will come together and make sense in short time." With that, Mycroft nodded and showed himself out, closing the door with much more poise and gentleness than Sherlock had.

John wasn't sure how long he stayed sitting in his chair, but jumped when Sherlock said his name and stood in front of him. The ex army doctor looked up at his flatmate, who wore a slightly concerned expression. "Sherlock! When did you get back in?" The detective quirked an eyebrow and frowned a bit more.

"An hour ago, John. I said your name 3 times." Sherlock replied, shifting his weight onto his right side. "Are you alright? You're not getting sick, are you? I will not tolerate sickness, seeing as how you must come to the crime scene with me."

John stared at Sherlock incredulously, puzzled by how he be bothered to worry about John's health when he himself was sick.

"Crime scene?" John said, still staring up at his flatmate. _"You're dying for godsakes, how can you bear to go to a crime scene and be around all that death?" _John wondered, shifting in his chair.

"Yes, John. And please, no repetition. It's dreadfully boring. Now, come on! We must get there before forensics does!"

John nodded and shot up, nearly stepping in Sherlock's foot. The detective watched him with an interested eye as he scurried around the flat, trying to locate his coat which wasn't hanging up in it's normal place.

"John."

"What, Sherlock?"

"You're wearing your coat. You never took it off."

John looked down at himself and low and behold, the coat was still on his body. The blonde haired man looked over at Sherlock with a sheepish smile and little shrug. "Huh, I guess I am." John followed Sherlock out the door, watching as the man hailed a cab and felt his heart flutter painfully. How long would it be until John couldn't hear that voice anymore? Until he couldn't see those strong features and passion for brutal crime scenes and murders? John forced the thought away as a cab pulled over for them and he sat rather close to Sherlock.

_"You absolute berk. Are you really going to do this now? As your best friend is dying?"_ his mind inquired, making John swallow painfully. Why did it always take until something bad happened for people to realize how they felt about another? John felt sick with himself for waiting until Sherlock was dying to really embrace his feelings for the man. God, he loved him. John was in utter love with Sherlock, and it had taken the news that he was dying for John to fully realize it. What should he do? Despite what he would like to admit, John was painfully inexperienced in the specific love department. He hadn't felt truly overcome with affection and protectiveness and the pure _need_ for someone since he was in high school. And even that relationship didn't last a very long time.

So what should his plan be? Just be outright as confess? Bloody hell, he didn't even know if Sherlock felt romance! The last thing John wanted was for their friendship to be ruined just because the ex army doctor had gone and fallen in love. He sighed, feeling a headache coming on from his wiring mind.

_"Oh, screw it."_ John thought, and took a deep breath, turning to Sherlock.

"S-Sherlock," John cursed mentally at how shaky his voice had come out. The detective turned to look at John and he felt a bitter taste on his tongue. Yes, he hadn't planned on pressing the matter. But asking about his well being wasn't really pressing, was it?

"Er um...you'll tell me if something is wrong, won't you? Like um, if you're sick of something. Tell me and I'll uh, I'll help you, okay?" John wanted to throttle himself, because honestly, he couldn't believe how stupid and desperate he sounded. Sherlock would surely notice it, wouldn't he? The way that John stuttered and was acting like some bloody school kid trying to deal with his first crush. However, Sherlock seemed to pay no attention to his underlying tones and looked a bit surprised.

"Ah, yes. Of course, John. Not a problem."

There were times when Sherlock were quite grateful that John did not possess the ability to deduce like he could. Most of the time, it was because it would kill John to have all those thoughts bouncing around and slamming into things and being mixed up a lot. He would surely have migraines like Sherlock used to have, and seeing John in any pain would've turned Sherlock into a bit if a mess. Even more than that, the entire past would've turned out entirely different and it's very possible that they would've never met, let alone get a flat share together.

However, a few times it was because John failed to see things that Sherlock preferred to go unnoticed. Like now, he was surely blushing and clearly touched by John's statement, and hell, even a normal person could see how deeply in love Sherlock had fallen.

"That's uh, good. Very good." John said, pausing, then patting Sherlock's hand lightly where it lay next to his. They grew silent and John could feel his fingers twitch. He didn't have much to lose, and could always claim it an accident if Sherlock reacted poorly. So, John subtly scooted his fingers closer to his flatmate's, stopping when the side of his hand brushed and leaned against the cool leather of Sherlock's glove. He held his breath, trying not to acknowledge his action in any way. John felt his heart nearly stop as Sherlock relaxed into the touch. Perhaps his hand was just cold? The leather felt freezing to John. Despite how close they were, John knew that Sherlock still wasn't completely comfortable with him. He might as well forget about the man ever loving him.

Sherlock had to actively stop himself from placing his hand over John's and allowed himself a little sigh of contentment. Why did John do that? Did he think the cab was too hot? Even now, Sherlock could feel the heat from his hand radiating off the skin and through his glove. It was possible that he was just seeking cool relief. Even so, Sherlock couldn't remember another time that he had felt so relaxed, so comfortable. He was head over heels in love, and might as well forget ever not being so.

* * *

_this story is getting gayer the more i update _

_(also the first declaration of affection should be within the next 1-3 chapters!)_


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock and John were practically buzzing with positive energy as they exited the cab and entered the area of the crime scene. They were outside an old apartment building, small and slightly run down. It was obviously a cheap lease, and popular among students at Uni who were perpetually strapped for cash. Anderson and Donovan stood by a squad car talking, and ceased their conversation upon seeing the two men making their way near.

"Freak." she greeted, an icy, resentful smile on her features. John narrowed his eyes at her, and tightened his fists, while Sherlock was only amused by the reoccurring title.

"Ah, Sally. Hello." he replied curtly, holding up the tape behind him as John followed beneath it. She frowned, expecting some different type of reaction.

"You're not supposed to be here." she called, a hateful smirk resurfacing as John visibly tensed. He couldn't stand how she addressed Sherlock, and that damn expression. John knew it was in bad taste to punch a woman, but sometimes there was an exception.

"Unfortunately for you, Sally, I am supposed to be here. Lestrade called me, asking for help because it seems a few people in this division like to spend their time gossiping and having affairs rather than doing their jobs." Sherlock stopped and smiled at them. "Back on the couch, Anderson? I take it your wife found a little something left over from your last night alone in the house. Do try to be more careful."

They were off again before Anderson could retort Sherlock's remark and use Sally as added defense. Heading into the building, the duo followed the trail of milling officers until they came upon an open door and were spotted by Lestrade.

"Ah, there you guys are! Took awhile this time, huh?" he asked, shooting Sherlock a look with a raised eyebrow that translated to _"You two were shagging, right?"_

Sherlock sent one back that the older man immediately understood as _"John doesn't know yet."_ He frowned a bit at Sherlock then turned his attention to John before he caught onto their silent conversation.

"This one is kind of odd. Doesn't make sense to us."

"Hm, that's a first." Sherlock smiled slightly when John hit his arm and frowned at his comment. Lestrade rolled his eyes and led them into the small flat, down a hall, then into a bedroom. The room was tiny, with just enough room for a bed, the dresser that leaned against the wall and a desk. A young woman lay on the bed, slumped against the headboard with a laptop placed in front of her. Blood and brain matter were splattered against the wall behind her, and a pistol sat in her lap. Sherlock could feel John tense slightly next to him, and the detective wondered how many times John had seen this situation during his time in Afghanistan.

"It looks like a regular suicide right now, and most of the division wants to leave it at that. But I think otherwise..." Lestrade crossed his arms and scowled a bit. "You're making me think everything is complicated, Sherlock."

The detective seemed to grow with pride at the statement and stepped forward to examine the body.

"Blonde hair, no, bleached from brown. Looks about 20, was nearing 21..." Sherlock hurriedly put on his gloves and turned the girl's head slightly. His lips were in a tight line as he ignored the metallic smell of blood. There was a bruise at the base of her head, from what Sherlock assumed was the impact after the shot. He pulled away and noticed the oddly bright pigment in her cheeks. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and pointed at her hand.

"John, look at her fingers."

John snapped to attention and nodded slowly, then pulled on a pair of gloves. He moved to the bedside and gingerly lifted the girl's hand, dislodging the gun from her formerly rigid fingers.

"What about them? I don't see anything wrong."

"The color, John. She's dead, and has been for around oh, 12 hours? Her skin would've lost its shade. Are her fingers discolored?"

John looked again at her hand and realized that the bright shade of red-pink that her fingertips showed was odd, and would be odd on someone who had alive.

"The skin is peeling also. And if you look at her arms," Sherlock gestured to her left one with a frown. "Scratch marks. Self inflicted, yet not with the intention of harm. Red discoloration, desquamation, and an itch that wouldn't go away."

Sherlock turned on heel to loom at Lestrade. "Her hands are swelled as well. She obviously had mercury poisoning."

"Mercury poisoning?" he repeated, earning a nod in return. "Of course. It entered through her hands, as noted by the excessive peeling and redness there. She touches her face frequently, mostly her cheeks to exact. The mercury entered through there as well. Although..." Sherlock glanced back at the body. "The reason for the shot to the head is still unknown." he scowled as he said this, and John recognized it as anger and disappointment at not figuring it out.

"Who did she live with? Any roommates or a boyfriend? Girlfriend?" John asked. Lestrade opened his mouth to reply but was cut off by Sherlock scoffing.

"She obviously lives alone. The open cabinet in the kitchen showed sparse shopping, meaning that she not only ate out, but also for one."

"Our cabinets are pretty sparse, Sherlock."

"Nonsense, John. We went shopping earlier today."

An odd sound left Lestrade's mouth, and John turned to him. The older man had a smirk on his face, and an eyebrow raised in question. John glared at him, sending the message _"Sherlock hasn't deduced it yet."_

Lestrade made an exasperated noise as he tried to remember details about the person who reported the woman's death. "She has a brother and a couple of friends. That's really it though..."

"Useless. There must be something in here that ties in." Sherlock began to hurry around the room, opening drawers and searching them.

"I cannot believe you're going through a dead woman's dresser."

"Well, we have to find out why she's dead, don't we?"

Sherlock went over to the desk and opened the top drawer, rummaged a bit, then tried to close it, only to find that he couldn't. He all but ripped the drawer away and self satisfaction crossed his face as he pulled out a thick journal. Sherlock opened it and found a clump of letters, all binded together by an elastic band.

"She followed the words on the paper with her fingers, and the mercury was able to enter through her skin. She read these letters over and over, obviously not believing whatever words were on the paper." Sherlock deduced, peeling off the band and selecting an envelope.

"Read it, John." he instructed, tossing the letter at him. John caught it and stared at the unmarked cream tone of the envelope.

"Please be careful." Sherlock said softly, looking back to make eye contact with his flatmate. John nearly melted at the endearing tone Sherlock's voice held, and Lestrade made a disgruntled noise. Sherlock and John apart, were two of the most intelligent people he knew.

Together, they were probably the biggest morons he had ever met.

John slid two fingers beneath the tab and gently pulled the letter from its covering. Sherlock's shoulders were tense and rigid as John carefully extracted the paper and opened it from its folded position. The ex army doctor was silent as he began to read, his features hardening with confusion and disbelief.

"What does it say?" Lestrade questioned, coming closer to John. He shook his head again. "It's...I don't know. A hate letter? It's full of these threats, and secrets, maybe?" John was absolutely frazzled as Sherlock yanked the letter from his hands and began to read voraciously. His eyes widened at first, then narrowed as he scowled.

"I suppose you could call it a hate letter. Our killer was blackmailing her, making her feel remorse and guilt for," Sherlock hit the paper roughly. "Whatever it was she did." The detective gripped the letters tightly and turned on heel, walking towards the door. "Text me the addresses of her friends and family. John and I will be waiting."

And with that, Sherlock left the room, leaving John to sort out any minor details with Lestrade. The detective was out of the apartment building in a flash and ducked into the adjacent alleyway.

Hate letters.

How many of those had he received during his adolescence? They were especially prominent from the ages of 11 to 14, when his fellow peers felt their vocabulary was at its peak for expressing feelings. They didn't faze him at first; why would they? Children were stupid and mediocre and Sherlock had no time for them.

Everything adds up though, doesn't it?

As Sherlock attempted to steady his breathing that the painful memories of childhood had labored, John breathed a sigh of relief as he spotted him.

"There you are! I thought you left." John said, jogging over to meet him. Sherlock looked up, holding his breath as not to let out a strangled noise. John must have sensed his distress, because he touched Sherlock's shoulder gently.

"Are you alright?"

"Perfectly fine, John. You on the other hand..." Sherlock gestured to John's knuckles, which were red and had blood on them. "What happened?"

"Punched Anderson. Nothing big."

Sherlock allowed himself to smile slightly and drew a grin onto John's face. Peeling himself from the wall that he had been leaning on, the pair began to walk away from the scene, chattering about the case.

"I would've never noticed the mercury poisoning."

"Perhaps. It is uncommon for mercury to enter via the skin, even less through tainted ink. If it had been of normal occurrence, you might have been able to deduce it." Sherlock replied, raising his arm to flag down a cab. John smiled a bit at what Sherlock most likely intended to be an unnoticed compliment as they entered the vehicle. A comfortable silence fell upon them as the cab drove, with Sherlock deep in thought and John watching the city lights pass by. Suddenly, a loud gurgling noise filled the backseat and John looked over at Sherlock in surprise. The detective stared blankly into the air as if the sound hadn't come from him.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"Are you hungry?"

Another loud stomach growl was Sherlock's response, and John couldn't help himself as be grinned and began to chuckle. Sherlock tried to scowl, but his mouth quirked up at one corner. He couldn't pretend to be unhappy or angry when John was laughing.

The cab came to a slow crawl as the flat came into view, and John reached for his wallet, only to feel Sherlock's hand touch his gently. The detective pulled out his own wallet and drew the fare, handing it to the driver when the cab came to a complete stop. They both exited the vehicle and Sherlock trailed slightly behind as John climbed the steps. He unlocked the door and held it open as Sherlock hesitantly passed him and began to ascend up the stairs. John followed behind and handed Sherlock the key so that they could enter.

"Is pasta alright?" John asked as he hung up his coat. Sherlock had his back turned to John as he untied his scarf.

"Do not except to hear this ever again, but I am so unbelievably hungry right now, I couldn't care less."

John laughed and nodded as he walked into the kitchen and rummaged through the cupboards for a box. Sherlock plopped himself down on the couch and began to look at the rest of the letters while John cooked. The detective's face hardened as he read each paper.

* * *

**_"You're absolutely disgusting. I have given you everything, every last fucking thing and you think you can just turn me down?!"_**

**_"You need me. I complete you. Without me, you are nothing!"_**

**_We've known each other such a long time and I care about you so much. Don't you care about me?"_**

**_"I love you. I love you with all my heart and you think it's alright to just say no? Say that, you don't want to ruin what we have? Oh my dear, it wouldn't ruin us! It would only make us better!"_**

**_"I'm going to tell everyone your secret. That beautiful image you managed to build? GONE!"_**

* * *

"I suspect that our killer is jealous."

"Jealous?" John echoed, poking his head into the living room. Sherlock nodded as he continued to survey the letters. "Very. He was in love with our victim, but she turned him down. They've been friends for a long while. Not since childhood, but I suspect around 14-16 as the start point."

John's brows furrowed as he walked to the couch and picked up a letter. His mouth was in a tight line as he read a few lines.

"I haven't seen stuff like this since I was a teen." John murmured. Sherlock looked up at him in confusion. "You've seen these types of letters?"

"Ah, um, yeah. A...buddy of mine got things like this! Terrible, nasty things." John said quickly, mentally berating himself for almost revealing information like that. Would it be considered trying too hard if he put out the fact that he had always been interested in both sexes? Sherlock must have figured it out by now, right?

While John mulled over his thoughts, Sherlock relaxed back into the couch with a slow nod. "Ah, I see."

Sherlock knew that John had just lied. Very poorly, he might add. But why?

_"Could it be that John was bullied during his adolescence as well? Puzzling as to why, he is so likable and friendly it's a tad unnerving..."_ Sherlock thought, putting his hands together. John suddenly perked up as he remembered that dinner was on the stove, and could hear the sound of boiling water running over.

"Buggering shit!" he muttered as he placed the letter down on the table and hurried back into the kitchen. Sherlock smiled to himself as he heard his flatmate bustle about, cleaning the mess that had just been made.

"I didn't burn it, I swear!" he called, making Sherlock raise an eyebrow.

"Implying that you have burnt pasta in the past?"

"...No."

Sherlock laughed aloud as John drained the pasta and prepared it, carelessly throwing it onto two plates. He walked back into the living room and held one out to him.

"0/10 on your execution, John. Would not recommend."

"Ah, bugger off and eat your dinner." he replied sharply, though the words held no venom. Sherlock tucked his legs in as John sat next to him on the couch and turned on the telly.

"Doctor Who?" Sherlock asked in mild disgust as John quickly flipped to the channel. The ex army doctor turned to glare quickly at him.

"Yes, Sherlock. Honestly, I cannot understand how you dislike the show!"

"It's highly illogical."

"Since when do you care for logic?" John grinned as he asked and held Sherlock's plate back out to him. The detective took it, then lazily stretched his legs out onto John.

"I always have, John. It's only my own logic that matters though."

John snorted and turned his attention back to the program, taking a bite of his dinner. Sherlock held his fork in his hand, looking at the metal. The tips of the prongs were slightly worn and scratched, and the low lamplight reflected off them brightly.

"Hey!" John tapped the rim of Sherlock's plate with his fork. The detective looked at him to see his flatmate frowning. "Stop deducing your fork. It's not like it committed a crime. Eat."

"How do you know that my fork didn't commit genocide? Are you sure that in the molding of this stainless steel utensil, the metal was not laced with some type of poison?"

"You're an absolute berk. Shut up and eat your damn food." John sent Sherlock another unmeaning glare, to which the detective smiled at. Sherlock spun his fork in the noodles and brought a bite to his mouth. It was surprising how tasty the dish was, even though John had simply thrown it together. Had he used some some type of spice? Perhaps a flavored salt? Sherlock continued to ponder about his flatmate's cooking techniques as he ate, absentmindedly allowing his eyes to trail over to the telly and watch the show without ever processing any information about it.

By the time another episode had begun, Sherlock looked over at John to find that he had fallen asleep, fork still in hand. Sherlock smiled and carefully peeled his legs off of John and sat up, holding his plate in one hand and grabbing John's with the other. He walked into the kitchen and stared at the sink.

_"Should I wash the dishes? Mrs. Hudson usually comes up and does that..."_ Sherlock thought, his lips pursed in thought. He shrugged and placed the plates in the sink, then walked back into the living room. John had moved while Sherlock was up, as he was now slumped over and looking frankly worn. Sherlock felt a smile tug at his face as he tiptoed over to the couch and delicately sat down.

_"Would it be too much if I laid here with him? I was reclined before, so I mimic the position again John should fully believe the he simply fell asleep on me..."_ Sherlock pondered the subject a while, then smiled mischievously as he stretched his legs out over the cushions and slumped down comfortably on the couch. John stirred, and Sherlock held his breath in horror at being discovered. However, the shorter man only draped himself over his flatmate's legs, his head resting on Sherlock's thighs. The detective breathed out in relief as John snored quietly, a clear signal that he was asleep. Sherlock found himself drifting off as well, and sighed contently.

Perhaps it was high time John knew.

* * *

_sorry for the wait on this chapter, school has been very hectic! __i'll try to form a more solid update schedule soon uwu _

_also, thanks to everyone who reviewed! your words motivate me a whole bunch! _


	7. Chapter 7

John had always held affection for classical music and symphonies, ever since his mother had brought him to an orchestra when he was younger. He could remember the day with little bleariness, from the attire he had dressed up in for this special occasion to the ending of the last piece.

So finding a flatmate with a particular taste for the violin was just his luck.

Especially when said flatmate composed early in the morning, when the notes were soft and gentle and could even wake John from a nightmare. But this morning, he found himself on the couch, his cheek sticking to the smooth leather expanse. A checkered blankets had been draped over him, and the detective who had been sitting with him last night was no longer there.

Instead, Sherlock stood in front of one large window, bow in hand. John watched through partially shut eyes as Sherlock composed, his eyes closed with dark lashes that caught the late morning sunlight. One bony hand held the bow, while the other's fingers glided over the strings. The notes were low and drawn out, almost a lonely and sad sound. Then it picked up, a more bright pitch matching the upbeat tempo. What followed was abound with inflections and drops, but John noted the clear difference from the beginning of the song. A smile flowed onto Sherlock's lips as he played, and John could tell how relaxed and happy his flatmate really was when he was allowed to do what he loved freely. As the piece drew to a close, John absentmindedly clapped quietly, and Sherlock's head whipped around in surprise.

"Goodmorning." John greeted, yawning as he sat up. Sherlock turned his back on him, gently placing his violin and bow in its case.

"You fell asleep on the couch last night." the detective said quickly, turning on his heel to walk into the kitchen. John watched him walk away. "Yeah, I figured that out." he replied, gesturing at the couch and the blanket that remained around his shoulders.

"Did you sleep here too?" John questioned, trying not to let himself sound too eager and hopeful. John knew he had a habit for clinging a bit in his sleep. Had he clung to Sherlock?

"No. I retired to my own bedroom last night."' Sherlock said, opening up a cabinet. John nodded and stood up, allowing the blanket to drop onto the floor. "Oh, yeah. Of course."

Sherlock could hear a undertone of disappointment in his friend's voice and was confused. Why would he be disappointed?

_"It could be due to his habit of holding something close while sleeping. The security and comfort are necessary for him to have pleasant dreams, and it is possible that he had a minor nightmare. Perhaps I should've retrieved one of his pillows?"_ Sherlock thought as he fished out a box of toaster pastries. While Sherlock's eyes gazed over the absurd amount of sugar and fat in the nutrition facts, he scowled over the thought of John holding a pillow close.

Was it possible to form some type of concoction which would turn a 6'0 detective into a pillow?

"Sherlock."

The younger Holmes snapped to attention at his name being called to see that John had migrated into the kitchen and now leaned against the counter, staring at him peculiarly. "You've been staring at that box for 5 minutes. Trying to harness your genius x-ray vision? Maybe trying to use the force?"

"The force?"

"Dear lord, have you not seen Star Wars?"

"It that some type of movie? If not, I have no need for the solar system. It it impossible for there to have been a war in space anyway." While John made a noise in anguish and covered his face with his hand, Sherlock ripped open the box and extracted a packet.

"Are you aware of the amount of sugar in this? It is nearly 75% of the daily recommended amount."

"Yeah, I know," John replied, walking over to another cabinet to grab two mugs. "You love sweet stuff. Figured I could get you to form some more frequent eating habits."

"Your attempts are futile. I do not love sweet things. They are merely a good source of carbohydrates to power the body I use for transport."

"Yeah, transport." John replied sarcastically, frowning a bit. He hated how little Sherlock cared for his body, whether it was abstaining from sleep, or eating once every three days. How he achieve the latter was beyond him, since John could barely manage without breakfast.

"Speaking of the meal," Sherlock cut in, interrupting John from his thoughts. "Here." Next thing John knew, a packet of the toaster pastries was flung in his direction and smacked him dead in the chest. The ex army doctor made a noise in surprise and caught the item. He narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with food?" John questioned as he opened the package.

"Says the man that once tried the 'here comes the airplane' tactic with me." Sherlock replied, taking a hard bite out of one of his. John laughed at the memory, covering his mouth as a small snort erupted. Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he began to chuckle completely taken aback by the sound that had just left his friend's mouth.

"Shut up! It's not funny!"

"Quite the contrary, my dear Watson. That snort was very humorous." Sherlock grinned as John attempted to compose himself, obviously embarrassed for the sound. Sherlock didn't understand why.

He personally found it very cute.

John coughed and collected himself, taking what was supposed to be a dignified bite. Sherlock raised an eyebrow in question, to which John grinned at and turned his face away so that he try to eat without bursting out in laughter. Sherlock watched the corners of John's mouth pick up as he smiled, and the detective's heart nearly melted.

Right now.

He was going to say it right now.

"John, I love-"

A high pitched ringing sounded off, immediately shutting Sherlock's mouth and making John look up. Containing his annoyance and frankly, rage, Sherlock reached into the pocket of his dressing gown to extract the shrilling electronic.

"Sherlock Holmes." he greeting tightly. The scratchy voice of Lestrade greeted in reply, then continued to jabber on.

"I sent you the addresses of the victim's friends and family. Did you get them?"

"Yes, Lestrade. They are eagerly waiting in my messages."

"Ah okay. That's good. Yeah, good."

"Oh, out with it. Don't be boring."

"Have you told him yet? Or asked him? Any progress at all, because I can help out a bit-"

Sherlock turned on heel and left the kitchen, walking into his bedroom and shutting the door hard. John stood there in silence, the replies of Sherlock's conversation now nothing but dull murmurs. He breathed out, trying to relax the tension his shoulders had built up.

"Oh lord, what was he going to to say?" John whispered to his toaster pastry. The word had sounded like 'love', hadn't it? John's heartbeat was going wild as he imagined Sherlock confessing to him, oh god almighty, Sherlock saying that he loved him.

John could've jumped for joy if not for the key fact that Sherlock hadn't completed his sentence. Nor would he probably ever, since once he was off a thought it was either deleted or filed away to never be acknowledged again. John sighed and munched his toaster pastry in disappointment.

* * *

"I know ways to kill a man without ever being found guilty, Lestrade. Would you like to see?"

**"There's a reason why people assume you're the serial killer, Sherlock."**

"There will be no room for assumptions soon." he snarled out, plopping down on his bed. Lestrade grew quiet, then understood the situation.

**"Oh shit, you were going to tell him, weren't you?"**

"Brilliant deduction."

**"Should I go then? I mean, are you going to go back to telling him or-"**

"No, stay on the line. I need your help." Sherlock sighed as he said this, as if it pained him. Truthfully, asking for help was painful for him, since everyone made it seem like a big deal whenever he did.

**"Uh, sure. Yeah, what do you need?"** Lestrade asked, his voice saturated with surprise. He had always thought that Sherlock would come to him last with any problem.

"How do you say it?"

**"Say what? I love you? I want to shag your brains out? And if it's the last one, I am not going to help you there."**

"Don't be daft. Of course it's the first one. Although, the second is a very appealing subject-"

**"Too much info, Sherlock."**

"Barely any information, Lestrade. Carrying on, you are a man who is painfully sentimental. Even more, you are in a relationship with someone as of late and recently expressed your love for them. They reacted positively, based off your mood. So first off, how do you say it without making a complete fool of yourself? And further more-"

**"You don't, Sherlock. You feel like a complete idiot when you say it, but you still feel like Earth is in the palm of your hand. Like you're the king of the world. And those first few seconds are absolute hell and complete terror, but when you see the feelings be returned and they just smile and say it back, Sherlock, it's-"**

"Eurgh, enough. You sound like someone out of Mrs. Hudson's daytime shows."

**"Sod off. I'm just letting you how it is."**

"I need exact words, though. This...isn't my area of expertise."

**"Sorry, no can do."**

"What! Why not?!"

**"Because you'll find out who I'm in a relationship with based on...based on god knows what! You'll just have to find your own words."**

Sherlock made a noise in anguish and clenched his phone tightly. "You're in a relationship with a man-"

**"God dammit..."**

"Wondering how I knew that? Obvious. You held your breath when I began and when I said his sex, you sighed very loudly. I could hear you shift, showing that you are blocking the speaker a bit to avoid anyone else finding out."

**"I'm going to punch you in the jaw."**

"The man is of great prominence, thus the reason why you are trying to avoid anyone finding out. You would hate to create a fuss, as it would make his job difficult and possibly endanger you, something he has brought up countless times. So, a job with the government."

**"Oh, would you look at the time! Sorry Sherlock, gotta-"**

"He's on a diet, and you have joined in order to motivate him. Your belt is a notch tighter, so the diet is working for you. Him, not so much. You've been on your phone more often, obviously testing him and helping him through the day."

**"Sherlock, please-"**

"He has red brown hair, I saw a strand or two on your jacket yesterday. He is far from the type to dress down, as you have begun to wear better clothes due to the feeling of appearing inadequate."

Sherlock sat up on the bed with a smirk as he could hear the frenzy in Lestrade's voice grow more and more evident. Honestly, he didn't understand what the problem was. If Sherlock had been in a relationship with John, he wouldn't hesitate to describe his love, and make it evident that he was not to share.

"Important government figure, high IQ, low ability to stick with a change in diet, likes things to be secretive..."

* * *

Suddenly, John heard a wail of disgust erupt for the detective's room. He looked up curiously from his cup of tea to see Sherlock burst from his bedroom and run into the kitchen with a appalled expression. In his hand was his phone, and John caught the voice of Lestrade before the line was cut.

"What is it?" John asked, setting the cup down. Sherlock looked utterly horrified and he slammed his phone down on the table. His face was close to John's, and the ex army doctor could see the intensity in his features. His lips in a tight line, and only mere inches away...

"Lestrade is dating my brother!" Sherlock all but screeched at John, pulling away quickly and letting out a bellow of frustration and anger.

"Why?! Why does he always have to ruin everything?" Sherlock kicked over a chair in his anger and stomped his foot. John looked at him in confusion and dread as possibilities he didn't particularity like dawned in his mind.

"Wait, do you...fancy Lestrade?"

The horrified look surfaced again and John almost laughed at it. Sherlock grabbed his shoulders and made possibly the ugliest face that he could as he shuddered in disgust.

"Oh course not! Me, fancying Lestrade? Utter idiocy!" Sherlock released his hold again and rubbed his face as John nearly sighed in relief.

_"Good, he doesn't have feelings for Greg. Oh, thank god!"_ John's mind was on the verge of singing in joy and he quickly directed his attention back to the rapidly cooling tea in front of him. Sherlock righted the chair and sat down, his face in his hands.

"Get dressed. We're going out."

"Out?" John's mind focused on Sherlock. "Out where?"

"To question the victim's associates of course. We must make haste!" And with that, Sherlock went off into his room to dress and John sighed. He looked down at the rumpled shirt and jumper, then begrudgingly stood and poured the remained of his tea into the sink. John placed the cup down and dragged his feet as he went upstairs to his own room. Couldn't they just lie around and pretend to be your standard domestic couple?

Well, as standard as an army doctor turned blogger and the world's only Consulting Detective could be.

Unfortunately for John, that vision of them in a relationship was still as far off as possible. He was acting like a teenage boy, whether it was from the aspect of his libido or the utter reluctance and fear of just telling Sherlock how he felt. John scowled as he stripped off yesterday's clothes and hurriedly put on a new ensemble. He was a soldier for godsakes! He had faced life and death everyday, sewed men up and saved them. He constantly had an attack looming over him and nearly died in that hot, dry sand, yet just being a man and saying _'I love you'_ was daunting?!

"Buggering shit..." John growled as he slipped on a new pair of socks and pattered down the stairs and back into the main part of the flat. Sitting on the couch, he slipped on and tied his shoes as Sherlock came into the living room. He had barely even buttoned his shirt and John let his eyes flicker to the pale, toned chest before it disappeared behind the fabric. That was an overstatement, as the buttons strained each time the detective inhaled. How Sherlock managed to find shirts that fit him like a second skin, while John preferred for jumpers that made him look like a lopsided muffin, was beyond him.

Sherlock hobbled around as he put on his shoes, and threw John's coat at him. The ex army doctor easily caught it, and grinned as Sherlock's enthusiasm nearly caused him to throttle himself while trying to put on his scarf.

"You're rather eager. Did Lestrade call with some type of important development?" John asked they exited the flat. Sherlock took the stairs two at a time and John nearly tripped down them in an effort to keep up.

"No, there wasn't. But details fade irritatingly quickly from the average human mind, so time is very important." Sherlock hailed a cab and tapped his foot as it pulled over in front of them. He relayed the first address to the driver and settled back into the seat as they peeled off the side of the road. John watched buildings and people pass by as they drove and he wondered about who the first person they were going to see was.

* * *

_whoops added some mystrade in there _

_also bURSTS THROUGH YOUR WALL ON A SKATEBOARD hey thanks for all the great reviews and follows! _


	8. Chapter 8

It turned out that the address belonged to the victim's older brother, something that John didn't find out until a red eyed, tear streaked face met them at the door.

"Urm, ah h-hello. I'm sorry, but this isn't a good-"

"It's about your sister. We're investigating her suicide and needed to ask you a few questions." Sherlock cut him off harshly, and John elbowed the detective. The man was caught off guard, but nodded slowly and held in a sob that was desperately fighting to be heard.

"O-Of course. Please come in..."

Sherlock and John walked past the man and into the small home, both stopping to wait for the owner. The house was tidy and organized, and they were able to make their way into the living room without any distractions. The man dropped down onto an armchair, then gestured to a couch, which the duo took a seat on. He had a box of tissues placed in front of him, and he turned away as he blew his nose.

"P-Please forgive me. I'm not holding up well r-right now..." John gave the man a look of sympathy and patted his knee. "We completely understand. But um," John glanced back at Sherlock who was looking rather annoyed with the man. "We have a time frame. I'm sorry if this sounds rude at all, but we really must be getting on with this."

The brother nodded instantly, sniffling and dabbing at his eyes with a tissue. "Yes, yes of course. Go right ahead." Sherlock took this cue and leaned forward so his elbows rested on his thighs and he had his hands together.

"You're 26, just out of an 8 year course at a medical university. Recently, you had your big break and were hired at St. Bart's as a surgeon. You start tomorrow, and are trying to rid yourself of all these emotions before the start of it. You and your sister were very close, so parent death. It was your mother, as you wear her birthstone in remembrance. Your father was overcome by grief after her death and cut off almost all relations with her family, then took you and your sister away. Moved around a bit, then finally stopped here in this house." Sherlock gave the man a lookover then glanced around the room.

"Father left when you turned 17, but continued to wire funds to you. At the age of 19, you were accepted into Uni and your sister was sent to boarding school. You two retained a positive connection and with the money you had set aside with your father for the past 10 years, you were able to send your sister to her university of choice when she graduated. Both at school, you assumed that she was responsible enough and the amount of communication that you shared dwindled. So, when a problem sprang up where she was receiving hate letters and apparently death threats, you of course had no knowledge of it." Sherlock settled back and raised an eyebrow. "Am I correct?"

The brother was taken aback, and his brows furrowed as he forced put words.

"H-Hate letters?" he croaked. Sherlock looked at him with a glare of contempt. "Of course. Didn't they tell you anything?" Sherlock dragged on the last word with annoyance, but cut off when John elbowed him sharply. The brother shook his head slowly.

"N-not a word. They said it was private police matters..." The man struggled to hold himself together and John scowled at Sherlock. The detective sighed loudly, and gave John a look of utter boredom.

"I'm going to cut to the chase then. I believe your sister was forced into suicide by someone who held romantic feelings for her. Also, the killer had laced the ink used in his or her letters with mercury, which played a key part in your sister's death. Do you know anyone with feelings for your sister, and has access to such ink?"

John sighed and held his head while Sherlock made a frustrated noise in the back of his throat. The brother cascaded into his thoughts, searching his mind for anyone who fit the criteria.

"I-I can't think of anyone...I'm sorry..." he said at last, to which Sherlock replied with an angry groan and stood up, while John nodded in understanding.

"But, um, is there a number I can call if I remember anything?" he added, obviously put off by how the investigation was going. John nodded again, and gestured at the brother's pocket.

"Ah yeah, you can call my number. Here." John took the phone that the man held out to him and typed in his contact. Sherlock felt jealousy flicker inside him, like a match being struck. The brother shook his hand and managed a wobbly smile. "A-Ah yes. Thank you. And p-please," He held John's hand tightly and made desperate eye contact with him. "When you find the bastard who did this, kill them. Kill them before I do."

While Sherlock's flicker turned into a raging inferno, John patted the man's hand and nodded.

"Of course. We'll do all in our ability."

They were shown out after that and Sherlock became still as a statue when they entered a cab again, most likely a gargoyle due to the horrid sneer his face held. John's eyes kept flicking over to the clearly ticked detective, and he wondered what had gotten his knickers in such a twist.

"So where-"

"The rest of the contacts are rubbish. The brother is our key informer, since they both had known our killer for close to 6 years."

"But she must have a best friend-"

"He is her best friend. Everyone else is just..." Sherlock seemed at a loss for words for a moment. "They're all just a bit more than acquaintances. They don't matter."

Sherlock went rigid and silent again, but John continued to pester him.

"What about you? I'm your best friend, but you can't honestly view Mrs. Hudson, or Greg as just acquaintances!"

"You're more than my best friend," Sherlock turned and looked at him. "You're John."

And while Sherlock planned on continuing with this, as his name meant a million things to Sherlock and it's owner's presence was practically sewed into every atom of his being, the ex army doctor knew none of this and kept talking.

"I'm John? What is that even supposed to mean?!" Something in Sherlock went off and his nostrils flared in annoyance and frustration.

"Find your own definition!" he snapped, letting out a growl of anger and turned back to the window. John, very confused, and slightly annoyed by Sherlock's attitude also turned to his window and said nothing more. He just didn't understand him! Was telling John that he was his name supposed to be some type of emotional confession? A breakthrough of some sort? John wanted to yell at him and punch him and would kiss him right now, if it meant that he would be let in more and could just understand.

When the cab pulled up to 221b, Sherlock handed the cash to the driver before John even realized they were home. He exited the cab in a flurry of coattails and sulking, while John just sort of stumbled out in his distraction. Both men were silent as they entered their flat, and Sherlock hurried off to his bedroom and slammed the door. John sighed, and placed himself in his armchair. He stared at a spot on the wall, looking at how different the wallpaper looked in the fall daylight then in the dim lamplight that cascaded over them in the night. He propped his head up with one hand and gazed over at the telly.

There was no way to drown his confusion and irritation like watching reruns of Star Trek.

* * *

Sherlock wanted to scream and tear himself apart and apologize for his behavior towards John and just stop feeling for a moment, but the best he could manage was sulking and hiding in his room while he reflected.

Oh, Sherlock was absolutely seething about the encounter with the victim's brother earlier. How dare he take John's hand, take his hand and hold it and shake it and squeeze it when Sherlock could do none of that. John was his, but at the same time he wasn't and it hurt so much. He couldn't breath without John, and he had constantly been drowning in addiction and loneliness and hate for everyone that was whole and had complete hearts.

And then this doctor straight from a warzone, this doctor who wore 50 shades of brown in one outfit and enjoyed lumpy cable knit sweaters and tea with far too much sugar, this doctor that was supposed to be so painfully average and boring and tedious, just happened to be discharged, just happened to meet an old friend in a park and just so happened to have a measly army pension, a high tolerance of people and not care that Sherlock was one of the most dangerous and brilliant men in all of England.

He didn't care about that and Sherlock loved him for it. No, that was wrong. Sherlock loved John for John. He loved the man's stature, the man's attitude and gall, the way his eyes crinkled a little bit when he grinned and how his laugh set off a fire and Sherlock's step and soul.

But Sherlock couldn't stand some of the other affects that John caused. He hated how John made him feel, how John made him human and that the wall he had built came crashing down the first moment they met.

He was so conflicted, so in love, and at the moment, so unbelievably jealous that some 26 year old had John's number waiting in his contact list.

* * *

Hours dragged by, and it was close to 6 when John's mobile began to ring. The ex army doctor had actually dozed off, but snapped to attention when the shrill tone filled the room. He groggily fished the device out of his pocket and yawned as he pressed talk.

"Mmn, hello?"

**"H-hello? This is John Watson, correct?"** John recognized the voice immediately and blinked away any excess sleepiness and he moved around in his chair.

"You're ah, um..."

**"David. And I think I found someone who fits your description."**

* * *

Sherlock had been in his Mind Palace, reorganizing every little thing that didn't quite have a place and reflecting on his favorite section when John suddenly knocked on his door. Three quick raps, and the doctor didn't even wait for an answer before coming in. He was clearly alarmed by something, and Sherlock sat up quickly.

"John, what's wrong?"

"It's David, the brother. He says that he knows someone who fits what we're looking for."

Sherlock held out his hand for the phone, and John passed it over without another word. Sherlock's face turned into a seemingly disapproving, if not hateful expression when the brother began to speak.

"Be quick. What have you got?"

**"I had this mate named Harland. We were close up until last year when this big falling out happened. I think he's the bastard you're looking for."**

"Is that it, just a suspicion? Or some type of grudge?" Sherlock questioned. John watched as his eyebrow quirked when the brother talked again. Sherlock gripped the phone tighter and a small smile began to creep onto his face.

**"He works at tattoo parlor, some of the ink has mercury in it, right? And I cut off ties with him because he was...he was just indecent towards her. Always going on about how she loved him and was his..."**

"Are you absolutely sure? I will not allow myself to be made a fool."

**"I'm as sure as I can be Mr. Holmes. He was always the type for revenge, and had this kind of twisted way of doing it too. Please, at least confront him."**

Sherlock nodded and tossed the phone at John, who nearly dropped it, then hurriedly threw on his shoes and coat. John said a few parting words then hung up and watched as Sherlock practically hopped from foot to foot as he waited for John.

"Let's go! This Harland must've been thought he was oh so clever, and dare I say it was a good attempt. Using red ink from a tattoo parlor, it was of easy access, he wouldn't look suspicious buying it, and could easily hide it later." Sherlock grinned. "Neat."

John and Sherlock took off, flying down the stairs and out the flat. He stopped to hail a cab, but saw Sherlock begin to hurry down the street. John cursed the man's long legs as he took after him, managing to catch up before the turned the corner.

"Wh-Why didn't we get a cab?" he asked as they ducked past civilians and weaved through traffic. Sherlock glanced at him. "Waste of time and money. The suspect doesn't have many friends, so a cab pulling up at close to 8 at night would surely alert him to something." Sherlock nearly collided with someone, but skidded around them just in time.

"And David, he was agitated. Obviously spoke to Harland before contacting you. He's boring, feeble-minded, so of course some sort of detail about how the police would find him slipped out." They darted out into the street and John narrowly missed being hit.

"Harland will be expecting us."

* * *

_literally though my headcanon john is the biggest nerd you can imagine _

_also drumroll because it's going to happen_

_the feelings are going to be proclaimed_


	9. Chapter 9

_okay so quick warning for a homophobic remark by a very rude murderer _

* * *

John wasn't sure about how Sherlock knew the address of their suspect, but he chalked it up to him overhearing David say it.

They crossed into a shabby, run down neighborhood and Sherlock hurriedly pulled John into an alleyway.

"What are you-"

"Take this." Sherlock produced a gun and shoved it into John's hands. The ex army doctor looked at him curiously.

"Your gun? But I have mine..." John was suddenly hyper aware of the lack of a weapon in his pocket and cursed under his breath. Sherlock licked his lips nervously and his eyes shifted around.

"You're a better shot than I am. The gun will be useless in my possession." He suddenly grabbed John by the shoulders and held him tightly. It was borderline painful, the way Sherlock's nails dug into his skin. But John could feel this intensity, this type of fear behind his grasp. "Be careful, John. Do not let your guard down for a second." he lisped the final word, something he only did when uneasy or under pressure. John nodded sharply, and deposited the gun in his pocket. Sherlock gave him a terse nod, then they began to creep around the alleyway and towards what John assumed to be Harland's residence. They came across a small house, much more similar to a shack if you asked Sherlock. But then again, he always had been a posh bastard.

The door was unlocked, and they entered it warily. "Maybe we should have told Lestrade. Gotten a warrant." John whispered, his nerves running high with tension.

"That would've taken too long. And besides," Sherlock glanced over at him then down to his trouser pocket.

"I already alerted him."

"Saying?"

"Found our suspect. John and I are going to confront him."

"Bloody hell."

"His exact reply, John."

The pair went down a small hallway and found themselves in a dead end of a living room. Despite the house's poor exterior, a wide multitude of luxuries and expensive products were nestled inside. John found himself longing for a telly of that size, and Sherlock admired a few of the chemistry books. However, their target was nowhere in sight.

"Sherlock..." John's voice nearly cracked and the detective narrowed his eyes. He shushed John and they exited the room. The house was eerily quiet, and John found himself at his breaking point. Suddenly, the click of a safety lock sounded and they both whipped around to see their suspect.

"It's rude to enter one's home without their permission." Harland said, holding his gun tightly. It was a standard pistol, nothing big. But if this man knew his chemicals and elements, who's to say the bullets inside couldn't be far more deadly then Sherlock could anticipate?

"You left the front door unlocked." Sherlock replied mildly, seemingly unfazed by the situation. John however, was gritting his teeth and itching to retrieve Sherlock's gun.

"That I did," Harland scowled further and allowed his finger to hover over the trigger. "That I did."

"Tainted ink? I give it a 3. Far too cliche. Your performance of the murder was rather clever though." John wanted to roll his eyes and punch Sherlock. Honestly, complementing a murder's style? He briefly wondered why none of it alarmed him.

"She deserved it. Every last bit!" Harland held the gun tighter, his knuckles turning white. "But that's where you're wrong. I didn't kill her."

"Encouraging and assisting suicide. That's going to to get you the same sentence." John broke in, and his eyes went wide when Harland pointed the weapon right at Sherlock.

"Shut it. You don't understand a single thing about this situation. She couldn't handle the truth." he spat, the gun shaking slightly in his hands.

"We understand completely. You were the sole cause in the death of girl who did nothing wrong!" John spat right back, finding himself sickened by the man in front of him. He'd seen guys in high school mope and blame everyone but themselves when a girl rejected their feelings, but driving her to suicide? Absolutely disgusting.

"She did everything wrong!" Harland bellowed, his face twisting up in fury. "I gave her everything she ever wanted! I bought her stuff, took her places..." he shook his head and looked at them with what one might call broken heartedness.

"I loved her. I loved her so much, and she just let that brother get in our way! She wanted me, oh she wanted me so badly. But she let him control her." Harland's finger came to rest on the trigger.

"How could you know what's it's like to love someone and know that they don't feel the same? How can you live with that?" His voice was thick with desperation and sadness, though it did nothing to phase John and Sherlock. For a second, the detective thought Harland might break down and cry, but his face hardened and twisted up again.

"You don't know. You two have each other. Dirty, fucking queers."

In the same moment that police sirens came blaring down the street, and Sherlock could make out Lestrade's rough voice, Harland pulled the trigger. Time seemed to stop as John reached for Sherlock's gun and pulled it out, for he could see the bullet hurtling towards him. He raised the gun to fire, but suddenly had the breath knocked out of his lungs as Sherlock slammed into him. The front door burst open, and officers swarmed in. John was flat on his back upon the rather dingy rug, and Sherlock's bony body was draped over him.

"Oof, Sherlock, I can't breathe!" he said, but John froze when he felt a warm liquid drip onto him and smelt the overwhelming, metallic stench of blood. Sherlock immediately got up at John's request, but his face was a pained grimace and he held his right arm tightly.

"Sherlock, I ought to kill you right now! Lestrade all but screamed at Sherlock, but he stopped when he noticed the expression on his friend's face.

"Oh god, no."

"Oh calm yourself, Lestrade. It simply grazed my skin." The detective lifted his hand away, and despite the blood that covered the palm, he tried to appear unaffected.

"You're a bloody prat, you know that Sherlock?! Couldn't you have just waited for us?!" Lestrade grabbed Sherlock and hauled him out of the house, John trailing close behind. Harland had been subdued and cuffed, and Sherlock did not see him when the exited the house. The detective complained and protested loudly as paramedics bandaged his arm, one snapping at him and telling him that he should he grateful it wasn't more serious. Sherlock merely snorted, and John wanted nothing more then to throttle his best friend. Although he was true in saying the bullet had only grazed his arm, John couldn't get the image of Sherlock lying there on the dirty old rug, in that run down house, and just bleeding out in his arms. He swayed slightly on his feet, and someone tried to lower a shock blanket onto his shoulders. John shrugged them away, and held himself steady as Sherlock was patched up, and nearly kicked from the ambulance by one very ticked paramedic. Sherlock didn't look at John, didn't even acknowledge him as Lestrade set them up in a squad car, and sent home possibly the two most exasperating, idiotic and selfless men he had ever met.

Sherlock had been fuming since the paramedics first started to bandage his wound. He was first of all, absolutely livid about Harland, because how dare he raise a gun towards John? Yes, the man had been a soldier, and yes, he had been near death before. But getting shot under Sherlock's watch? Absolutely not.

And furthermore, he was furious about John. Why, he hadn't even drawn his gun until Harland was about to fire! Sherlock put it down to the possibility that Harland would snap and shoot before John could reach the weapon, but that sort of outcome had never really stopped him before, had it?

Most of all, Sherlock hated himself. What was he thinking, allowing John to leave the flat without his gun? Sherlock couldn't care less about his own fate, but John's? If John had been shot, had he been killed, had Sherlock been forced to hold John had he took in shuddering breaths, and bled everywhere and had John's blood been on his hands.

Sherlock felt he was going to be sick, and he gripped his hands tightly as the car pulled up to the flat.

"Sherlock?" John said as he unlocked the front door and opened it. Sherlock stepped in without responding, beginning to trudge up the stairs.

"Sherlock?" he tried again, his voice growing a bit strained. The detective remained silent, and John was becoming more and more annoyed.

"Sherlock!" John raised his voice, and saw as Sherlock's face turned into a scowl. So he was purposely ignoring him. Sherlock opened the door to the flat and walked in, taking off his coat and scarf. John slammed the door and glared at his friend.

"I know you can hear me, Sherlock! Answer me!"

"What do you want?" Sherlock turned on his heel and gave John a wild look. The army doctor was taken aback for a moment, then regained his composure.

"What do I want? For you to talk to me, Sherlock!"

"Why would I do that, John? What's there to talk about?"

"Maybe because you were just bloody_ shot?!_" John spluttered, clenching his fists. Sherlock laughed, the sound dry and short.

"Does it look like I care, John? The bullet merely grazed me!" Sherlock scoffed, making John grow more angry.

"Well you should! What were you even thinking?!"

"I was thinking that I wasn't going to let the person I have feelings for die!"

Sherlock's mouth clamped shut and John stared at him, his eyes wide and his mouth hanging open. He closed his mouth, then opened it to say something, but couldn't find any words. Everything seemed to have stopped; the sounds of London outside, the ticking of the clock on the wall, and both men's breathing.

"You...you..." John's brows were furrowed as he spoke, and his fists unclenched and hung limply at his sides. "You have...feelings for..._for me_?" Sherlock licked his lips nervously, but slowly nodded in response.

"For how long?" John asked, taking a step towards Sherlock. The detective swallowed, and searched his mind for the correct answer.

"I suppose since after you saved my life that first night with the cabbie. Up until a few months ago, I wasn't sure about them." He shrugged and clasped his hands together. "They don't matter though. You obviously don't share my feelings, so this whole thing is just..." Sherlock glanced up at him. "It's just stupid."

John's mind was moving a million miles per hour, yet he couldn't manage to form any words, any sort of reaction. He simply stood there and stared at Sherlock in astonishment, his eyes wide and gaping.

"We can urm, forget about all of this, John. Please forgive me." His voice had dropped into a whisper at the last three words, and Sherlock refused to look at John. Finally, the army doctor's mind seemed to slow enough for him to actually process the situation, because dear lord Sherlock has feelings for him and he's had them for such a long time and John felt the same way and this _whole thing was real._

"No." John managed to say, taking another step towards Sherlock. The detective looked up, bewildered to hear his response. "No, a-as in you won't forgive me, or no as in..." Sherlock's words trailed off as he finally looked at John,_ really_ looked at him and saw this soft feeling behind his expression, his expression being one of utter disbelief, but also of happiness and joy and just _amazement_. "Oh..."

John took small steps towards Sherlock, an almost hesitant feeling behind them as if one false move could crumble every element in this moment. John swallowed and made eye contact with Sherlock, the detective only looking at him in shock.

"I um...I'm going to kiss you now, is that er, alright?"

"Yes, yes."

"Ah okay. That's...um, good."

John lifted one hand to gently cup the side of Sherlock face, and ran his thumb over the man's defined cheekbone. His heart was pounding in his chest as he stood on his toes to lessen the height difference between them. John catalogued the different colored specks that formed Sherlock's irises and how his pupils were blown wide. This man was absolutely gorgeous, and John reluctantly closed his eyes as he closed the gap between their lips.

Sherlock's mind had been screaming at him ever since those words had slipped out, berating him even as John showed no signs of opposition or what he had expected, horror and disgust. And when John only stared at him, his bright blue eyes wide and fixated on him, Sherlock thought he could feel his heart crumbling. But then he got this look on his face, and began to come closer and the softness and worry and sentiment in his voice when he stated, then asked Sherlock for _permission_ to kiss him, as if the detective could refuse! And as John rose on his toes and his eyes focused on Sherlock eyes for a moment before flicking down to his lips. Sherlock watched as John drew closer, closer than they had ever been before and his eyes drifted shut and suddenly they were _kissing._

Sherlock's mind went delightfully blank, even for just a moment, before bursting back to life with every image of John he could muster. Each single bit of information, from the man's exact height right down to the millimeter, to which cup he preferred for his tea_ (it was the one which bore the symbol of the RAMC, obviously held a special place in his heart and mind)_, it filled his mind, and swelled his heart and he could taste the sugar from John's tea on his lips, and feel his hot breath. Sherlock was drowning, his very being saturated in the man in front of him. Warily, he reached to lightly hold John's arms where they were. John's lips were dry and slightly chapped, and Sherlock made a note in the back of his mind to get the man some lip balm. His hands were rough and calloused from years of work with his hands and wielding guns as he charged into a foreign country. But here, now, their texture might as well have been compared to the softest, most luxurious silk in the world because Sherlock was practically melting in his arms and wanted nothing more then to wrap himself further in John's embrace and let this moment be preserved forever.

Unfortunately, Sherlock and John were both human and their lungs were screaming for oxygen, so very begrudgingly, their lips parted and their eyes made contact. The detective smiled shakily, and a bit embarrassingly tried to catch his breath.

"Was that um, okay?" John asked, raising a questioning eyebrow as he grinned slightly.

"Ah yes, very good." Sherlock could feel himself flush and he chuckled a little bit as John let out what seemed to be a sigh of relief.

"That's great, I'm er, glad?" They were both laughing now, each finding himself completely relaxed, their moods ecstatic, and currently feeling like giddy schoolgirls.

"May we um, do it again...?"

"Oh god, yes."

* * *

_ there's your damn confession_

_next update should be within a week or so!_


	10. Chapter 10

The following day was spent at the flat, with Sherlock and John testing the new waters that had formed between them. The first night was spent in their respective beds, but both found themselves longing for the other person more fiercely than usual. However, the possibility of taking these too quickly was a constant threat in both their minds, so they settled for uncomfortable sleep. Sherlock lay on his back staring up at the blank, cream colored ceiling wishing that he could wrap his arms around John and pull the man in close, pressing kisses to the top of his head with all the affection he could muster.

John gazed at the wall, the darkness only slightly impairing his adapt vision. His hand tightened around the sheets as he brought forward the memory of earlier. Sherlock's lips had been soft, not chapped and windblown like his own. The detective's curly hair had become entangled in his hands and John was memorized by its silky texture. And his almost heavenly scent of aftershave, sandalwood and crisp cotton, it made John feel like he was spiraling into a wonderland. The ex army doctor frowned at the empty other side of his bed, then ruefully turned over and forced himself asleep.

Sherlock however, had a bit more trouble drifting off. He couldn't get his mind to slow enough to allow any sort of sleep, so he comforted himself with images of John. The shorter man was muscular, still very fit from his time in Afghanistan. Sherlock could feel the muscles through his cable knit jumper, the definition clear beneath the weave of the yarn. The detective sighed and flipped himself over, burying his face in the pillow and yearning for his love.

* * *

When both men awoke the next morning, they found this odd sense of security and fulfillment in their minds and hearts. John was puzzled as to why, and it took a minute for everything to set in.

He had kissed Sherlock last night.

He had kissed Sherlock _a lot_ last night.

The man rolled over and tried to ignore what he knew was an evident flush. What did this mean for them? Were they in a relationship now, would they tell others they were dating? John rather liked the idea of having Sherlock on his arm, being able to tell people that yes, they were in a relationship, rather than that uncomfortable pause before unhappily stating no.

And, it would give him a more just reason to punch Anderson the next time he poked fun _(viciously taunted if you asked John)_ at Sherlock. Everyone did seem to think lovers had more reason to defend their significant other than friends did.

But John wondered how Sherlock would feel about all this. The man was always one to hide his affections, trying to distance himself from everyone. John had asked him about it once, confused as to why he found emotions so "unneeded".

_"I'm proving my theory on detachment."_

_"And what does that theory say?"_

_"That caring is a disadvantage, John."_

John smiled slightly, thinking about it again. Was he considered Sherlock's disadvantage then? Had he really managed to wiggle his way into Sherlock's heart?

"No time quite like the present to find out..." John thought as he peeled the duvet back and clambered out of bed. He shivered at the temperature difference between the warm sheets and the air as he descended the stairs and entered the main part of the flat. Sherlock was sprawled out on the couch with his eyes shut, and John briefly thought that the man was asleep. Upon hearing John enter however, his eyes opened and he perked up.

"Morning." John greeted, smiling. Sherlock's lips quirked up at the ends. John paused in his steps, then rerouted himself, walking over to the couch. He hesitated a second more, then bent over and pressed a kiss to his forehead. He began to pull away, but felt Sherlock's cool hands grab his face and pull him back down. The detective placed a rather inexperienced kiss to John's lips, the odd pairing of Sherlock's head being upside down while John's was normal making for a difficult embrace. But, Sherlock managed and was smiling when John rose.

"Good morning, John." he replied, staring up at the man. John laughed and brushed an unruly curl from Sherlock's face. "You seem rather happy today." he commented, gazing down at the detective. Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, as if John had said something odd.

"Well, of _course._" Sherlock dragged out the last word. "Kissing is more pleasurable then I anticipated. You especially." John raised an eyebrow this time, tilting his head slightly.

"Implying that you've thought about it?"

"More than you can imagine." John laughed again and ruffled Sherlock's hair a bit. "I'll take your word for it." he said, walking into the kitchen. He grabbed the loaf of bread that sat on the counter, and opened the bag, taking out 4 pieces. When Sherlock had pretty much blew up their last toaster in an experiment to see how much bread could be fit into one slot, John had griped endlessly over the loss of his dear appliance. The next day however, he came home from the clinic to find a box waiting on the doorstep with his and Sherlock's name written on it. Inside was a brand new, 4 slot toaster, obviously Mycroft's doing. While Sherlock complained voraciously about his brother, John was highly grateful and happy to see the end of his lonely, toastless mornings.

He dropped 4 slices into their individual slots and pushed the lever down, watching as the toaster started. He took a step back and bumped right into Sherlock, who promptly wrapped his long arms around John's shoulders. He placed his head down in the crook of John's neck and the doctor let out a little sigh and leaned into the touch.

"Making tea?" Sherlock mumbled, his eyes closed.

"You could have made it yourself if you wanted some." John replied, moving and taking Sherlock with him as he walked to the stove and turned on the kettle. Sherlock sighed.

"You make it better. Tea preparation was deleted long ago."

"Liar. You're just lazy." John teased, a smile playing at his lips. Sherlock halfheartedly scoffed in reply, but offered no defense in his case.

"How long have you even been awake?"

"2 hours and 37 minutes."

"It's only..." John craned his neck a bit to get a good look at the clock on the wall."9:30. Neither of us went to bed until close to 11."

"So?"

"You got what, less than 6 and a half hours? Not what your doctor recommends, Sherlock."

"Ah, yes, but he's an idiot. Perhaps you should be my doctor, John. I think I would like that a lot better."

"Not when I'm nagging you for your poor diet and sleep habits you won't. Speaking of that," John looked over to where the toast popped up with a metallic sounding burst. "You're going to eat the toast I made." Sherlock made a low groan in the back of his throat, then puffed a warm breath out onto John's skin.

"Eat the damn toast or I won't kiss you."

"Oh, you are a cruel, _cruel_ man Doctor Watson."

"Thanks. Now go sit down, you berk." The detective muttered an illegible protest, but did as he was told and pulled away from John as he moved to take a seat at the table. John immediately missed the warm contact, but ignored his wish for it as he grabbed two plates from the cabinet and plucked the toast out of the toaster, placing two slices on each plate. He moved to the fridge and grabbed the jam that both he, and incredibly Sherlock, had a taste for and slathered it on the toast. Walking over to the table, he placed one of the plates in front of Sherlock, then took his place at the opposite side of the table. John took a bite, but stopped there when he noticed that Sherlock hadn't made any attempt to acknowledge the toast, let alone touch it.

"Hey, eat it." John said, swallowing his food. Sherlock tilted his head to the side and a smirk played at his lips as John narrowed his eyes.

"So, is the deal that you won't kiss me until I eat all of it, or that I only have to take a bite before you kiss me or-"

"Oh, come here." John sighed good naturedly as Sherlock leaned over the table and pressed his lips to John's, the detective humming happily with the gesture. The kiss was soft and gentle and just barely there, and John loved it.

But, when it looked like Sherlock wasn't going to move away unless John made him, the ex army doctor pulled away with a pointed look to the toast and Sherlock pouted.

"Now eat. No more until that plate is clear."

* * *

This sort of routine continued for the next week, with the pair waking up to lonely beds, but being enticed with one another's presence for the entire day. They rarely left the flat, and John assumed Mrs. Hudson sensed something different in their relationship by the sly smile she wore. John had expected Sherlock to become antsy, and complain for his lack of a case, but he remained collected and from what John could tell, very happy and content with their current situation.

Later that day, nearly a week and a half after they had first reciprocated one another's feelings, they were both laid out on the couch, with Sherlock's head in John's lap and John absentmindedly running his fingers through the detective's hair. Sherlock must've had sensitive follicles, because he let out a low sigh of pleasure when John's fingers brushed the hair in different directions. John chuckled a little bit, and gazed fondly down at Sherlock. The taller man had his eyes shut, and a little smile was on his face. John's focus faded from the show they had been watching and went to his love, the doctor's eyes following each little line on his face.

"John." Sherlock said, his voice pleasant and content.

"Yeah?"

"Let's go out for dinner. Angelo's?"

"Yeah, sure." John replied, looking down at himself. He and Sherlock hadn't changed from the their pajamas from this morning, and frankly, John felt a bit grimy. Sherlock sat up, then turned to look at him.

"You can shower first, if you like."

"I think I will. Thanks." John rose from the couch and stretched, letting out a low groan as he did. He pressed a kiss to the top of Sherlock's head, then walked off to shower.

Once John was out of sight, Sherlock fell back onto the couch and sighed. God, he felt high. Was this really how love made people feel? Sherlock could still feel John's fingers running through his hair and he shivered slightly. He was absolutely mesmerized anytime their lips touched, and the way John cupped his face or held him closer or breathed out anytime they parted was enough to make his heart stop and his mind go blank. He wondered if it was the same for John, or maybe if he was just second rate like all of his ex girlfriends had been. Sherlock hoped it was the former, hoped that every touch left John craving for more and that he was left with a bit of an empty feeling when they weren't together.

* * *

At around 7:30 that night, the two went off for dinner. Sherlock was dressed like he usually was, the ever posh Spencer Hart wool suit fitting him to a tee. John had settled on one of his nicest jumpers, a brown cardigan type that he wore over a white button up shirt. Jeans followed as always and dare he say, John thought that he looked rather dashing.

As dashing as jumpers and denim were anyway.

Angelo welcomed them into the restaurant with open arms and a booming voice.

"Sherlock! So nice to have you back again!" he greeted, a wide smile on the man's face. His vision flickered over to John, then back to Sherlock and a knowing grin crossed his face briefly.

"Come, come, I have the perfect table for you and your date."

John felt like a huge weight had been lifted off his shoulders when he didn't have to remind Angelo that no, he and Sherlock were not a couple.

_"Because now we are."_

That thought left John giddy as they sat down at a table that was nestled in a far corner, and a dim one at that. However, when he lit a candle between the two of them, the light managed to catch Sherlock's aristocratic features just right, and John found himself breathless. Sherlock thought just the equivalent, finding himself enticed by the way the candle lit up John's smile and eyes. The conversation came easily between the two of them, and John even convinced Sherlock to order something more than a salad. They both decided on pasta, with Sherlock adding garlic bread as side. Both John and Angelo knew that Sherlock had a particular weakness for garlic bread, and were glad for it. The restaurant owner would always send him off with extra, not wanting to see the person that had gotten him off a murder charge end up keeling over from starvation.

Sherlock and John both had wine with their dinner, the drink adding a fuzzy headed calm to the atmosphere. They talked and laughed and after a particular story about a prank he had pulled at Uni, Sherlock found himself on the verge of tears from laughing so much.

"S-Stop John, you'll put me into cardiac arrest." Sherlock choked out, his words unsteady. Something inside John's head clicked, and his laughter died out along with his smile.

_"Sherlock has a heart problem. Sherlock is dying."_ the reminder sounded off in his mind, like an ominous bell tolling. John suddenly found it hard to swallow and weakly tried to smile. However, Sherlock noticed the immediate change in John's face and frowned.

"What's wrong?"

"Hm, me? Nothing, I'm okay." John replied quickly, not wanting to damper the high spirits anymore. Sherlock knew that he was lying, and pressed further.

"Your face went blank when I spoke of cardiac arrest. You haven't been to the clinic in days, and you do mundane, simple work. Nothing where you would've lost a patient." Sherlock's face screwed up in thought for a second, then he let out a heavy sigh.

"Mycroft told you, didn't he?"

"Sherlock, please tell me he's lying. Or, maybe I missed something or-"

"Why would he be lying? I've already showed you that it's true, have I not?"

"He said you were dying, Sherlock!" John slammed his hands on the table. A few people in the surrounding tabled glanced over and John looked the other way self consciously. He looked back over to Sherlock to see a peculiar expression on the man's face.

"I'm not _dying_. Where on earth did you get that idea?" he asked incredulously. John's brow furrowed as he stammered out an answer.

"H-He said that you were having heart problems, a-and that it was killing you and I shouldn't pester you about it and-"

"Oh, John. No, you completely misinterpreted him!" Sherlock exclaimed, a smile crossing over his lips. John gaped at him, completely flabbergasted.

"Heart problems, John! That's always been a sort of code word in out family for um..." Sherlock flushed a bit and looked the other way. "For when one of us develop feelings for another person."

"B-But, he said-"

"Killing me? Quite so, I thought that I might die if I didn't express my affections soon. Mycroft thought that you had spent enough time around me understand every little Holmes family clue, which is highly impossible to do, even for someone like you John."

John stared at Sherlock, confused but overall extremely relieved that his best friend was not dying, and didn't have a health concern as far as he knew of.

"I am going to punch your brother."

"Mm, I suppose I'll join you." Sherlock's mild tone set them both off an a round of laughter and they relaxed in each other's presences again. John and Sherlock stayed until past closing time, only being shooed out when the restaurant had been otherwise vacant for nearly half an hour. Angelo handed Sherlock a box of garlic bread and sent them both off into the brisk London air with a wink. The duo walked down the streets with a light atmosphere around them, perpetual smiles plastered to their faces. However, it began to dwindle as they climbed the stairs into their flat, both men being aware of how late it was. Neither John nor Sherlock was rather fond of sleeping alone again tonight, but both were also rather afraid of overstepping a boundary. Finally, John yawned and hesitantly wished Sherlock goodnight.

"John, wait." Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and held it with an awfully nervous grip. His face flushed a bit and he looked away. John found this oddly endearing, how Sherlock refused to make eye contact when he stated something regarding his joy or affections.

"Would you erm...like to perhaps, sleep in my bed tonight? It is far bigger than your's, and the feather down duvet is much warmer compared to your's and I noticed that you were shivering outside and-"

John cut him off with a peck to the lips, and Sherlock's mouth stayed shut and twisted up in embarrassment as John grinned.

"Yeah, I would. Just let me change, okay?" Sherlock nodded fiercely and John laughed again as he ascended up the stairs. Once out of his view, Sherlock bounded into the flat and headed straight for his own bedroom. The door was only half shut as he carelessly threw off the suit and dress shirt, somehow managed not to stumble around as he pulled on loose pants. He had just gotten his t shirt on and was under the duvet before John knocked on his door.

"You decent?"

"Will you still come in if I am not?"

John opening the door with a sly grin was his response and Sherlock smirked back at him. John let out a fake sigh of irritation as seeing Sherlock clothed and under the blankets.

"Damn. And here I was, expecting something highly different." John remarked, making Sherlock snort. The shorter man faltered at the side of the bed, as if he were unsure if he really belonged it in. Sherlock lifted the duvet and patted the empty space next to him as reinforcement, and John breathed out happily as he clambered into the bed. They were both fairly uncertain of what position to take, as neither knew if the other had some sort of preference. They settled for Sherlock having his head nestled in the crook of John's neck and their legs being tangled together.

"Bloody hell, Sherlock! Your feet are _freezing_!" John exclaimed as a frigid appendage brushed over his leg. Sherlock only curled up further next to John, his feet touching John's warm body.

"Get them off me!"

"Mmm, John, you're so warm though. I think they'll stay." Sherlock lifted his head to gaze up at John, a small smile on the detective's features. John sighed, and smiled back at him.

"You're a sod."

"Thank you." John snorted and shook his head slightly before leaning down to press a kiss onto Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock sighed contently and wiggled up so that he could capture John's lips with his own, just barely brushing them against one another. The gesture was gentle, but meaningful, and they both felt fulfilled as they settled back into the bed. John reached over and shut off the bedside lamp, submerging the pair in the twilight darkness. John's eyes were closed, but he lay awake, listening to Sherlock's breathing pattern. Strong, steady breaths were warm against his skin and he found himself trying to push himself closer to the detective. Sherlock came to the same conclusion, and threw one arm over John's middle and held him close.

"John?"

"Yeah?"

"Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Sherlock."

* * *

It was nearly 10 when John awoke the next morning. He took a second to realize where he was, and once he did, an overwhelming surge of endorphins rushed through his bloodstream. John had always wondered why Sherlock didn't like to sleep in front of others, but he could see the answer now.

His sleeping position was probably as cause for embarrassment in his mind, as the detective was literally clinging to John, his arms wrapped around the doctor possessively. Sherlock's face was slack, with his curls sticking to his forehead and his mouth hanging open as he snored not so delicately. Still, the morning light that peeked through the drawn curtains managed to catch every detail just right and make him look like he had jumped right off the cover of some gaudy modeling magazine.

John found that he could get used to waking up to this every morning.

* * *

_guess who's favorite consulting criminal is going to start stirring up trouble _


	11. Chapter 11

_daily forecast for this chapter: explosions and orgasms_

* * *

When he had arrived back from Belarus, seeing John was his number one priority. They had been apart for 3 days, and contact had been limited to a phone call in the morning, texts throughout the day and a Skype call before John went to bed that night and Sherlock lay awake writhing in loneliness and yearning. However, he had come home to a vacant flat, his doctor not anywhere in sight.

_"I suppose coming back a day earlier would get me in this situation. John's obviously at the clinic."_ Sherlock thought unhappily, sighing as he went to his bedroom. A smile did however, manage to cross his face as he caught sight of a meticulously made bed. He and John had been together for how long now; borderline two months, if Sherlock remembered correctly. Which he did, and could put exact minutes on the start time for their relationship, but put that thought away in the small, but existing sentiment department of his Mind Palace as he dropped his suitcase on the floor. Flopping onto the bed, he stared up at the ceiling and grimaced. God, he was so _bored_. Sherlock had formulated the perfect way to kick off his return, including kissing John and pushing themselves into the realm of touching, something both men had been a bit wary of. The last thing either wanted was to impose on a boundary or somehow screw it up.

But now, with Sherlock's 3 hour plane flight planning gone to waste, he was left with absolutely nothing to do.

_"Text John?"_ his mind offered. The doctor wouldn't hesitate to hurry home if he knew Sherlock arrived back a day early. But no, he couldn't. Surprising John had been the whole point of hurrying his stay along (that and just not wanting to be away from him), so why would he ruin the last part of his plan that still remained intact?

_"Crap telly?"_ God, no.

_"Experiments." _All ongoing labs had been concluded last week.

_"Eat lunch." _Dreadfully boring. Out of the question.

Each suggestion was turned down, and Sherlock growled in frustration. He moved onto the bed more and laid in what had become John's spot. Putting his face to the pillow, John's sort of fresh, rustic scent filled his nose. The man smelt like tea and coffee (no sugar, but lots of cream) and leather and just _John_. Sherlock sighed and relaxed into the bed, thinking of him. Those 3 days had seemed like such an eternity to him, and only hearing John's voice, or seeing him over some harsh laptop screen in the night made it worse. They always ended it with "Goodnight, I'll see you soon. Miss you." Nothing more, nothing less. Though, Sherlock did admit that last part much less then John had. The detective wondered why John had decided to stay with him. He had only put John in dangerous situations, in which he conversed with murders and horrible, twisted people. Granted, John loved these situations, he loved the feeling of blood pumping through his veins just as much as Sherlock did. But the sensation that he would be John's ultimate downfall always nagged at the back of Sherlock's head. Hell, if Sherlock was John he would've left himself already. He had said that to John once, and the doctor looked downright mortified.

_"Well, you're not me. You're Sherlock Holmes, I'm John Watson and I'm mad for you. And, I don't plan on not being that way anytime soon either."_

Sherlock smiled at the memory and released his clutch on the pillow. He turned onto his side and stared blankly into space, feeling boredom starting to eat at him again.

_"Shoot holes in the wall?"_ Hm, possibly. Only if John stayed late at the clinic.

John was filled with alarm when he heard the gunshots in their flat, but after ducking into Mrs. Hudson's flat quickly and seeing that she was completely unfazed by it, if not a bit annoyed, John knew just who was upstairs.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?!" He exclaimed as he bounded up into the flat. Sherlock lay slouched in his chair, wearing his dressing gown, a great big frown on his face.

"Bored."

_"What?"_

"Bored!" Sherlock exclaimed, jumping up and aiming again. John swore under his breath and recoiled, covering his ears. Sherlock shot the smiley face on the wall, then throwing his arm behind and around himself, he shot again.

"Bored!"

Another shot.

"Bored!" Sherlock finally let his arm drop and John took the chance to rush forward and snatch the gun from his hands. Sherlock sighed as John unloaded the clip and he sulked over to the sofa. John locked the pistol in a small safe before turning back to Sherlock.

"So you take it out on Mrs. Hudson's wall?" he asked incredulously.

"The wall had it coming." he muttered, dropping himself dramatically onto the couch. John sighed and shook his head.

"What about that case in Russia?"

"Belarus, John. Open and shut domestic. Not worth my time." he replied curtly, grimacing. John gave him a look of sympathy, then turned his attention to the kitchen.

"Anything in? I'm starving." John opened the fridge then slammed the door as soon as he got a look at its contents. John leaned against the appliance, trying to process what he just saw. Opening it again, John stared at the head, and made a noise in disgust.

"A head!" Sherlock turned to look in John's direction. "There's a bloody head in the fridge!" he threw up his hands and walked back into the living room. Sherlock looked over at him.

"Of course. Where else was I supposed to put it?"

"Why is it in our fridge?"

"Experiment. I picked it up from St. Bart's while you were gone." Sherlock turned to get a better look at John. "You don't mind, do you?"

John made an exasperated noise and gestured at the fridge again, but said nothing. He walked over to couch and stood there until Sherlock retracted his legs enough for John to sit with him. Immediately, Sherlock stretched his legs back out over John and stared him down. John looked back over at him and sighed.

"I would've been here if you told me you were coming home a day early."

"It was supposed to be a surprise." Sherlock muttered, pouting. John smiled slightly and patted his knee. "I wasn't just going to sit around the flat while you were gone. I get bored too, you know." John told him. Sherlock continued to pout but his expression softened.

"I wrote up the case about the cabbie." John said, gesturing over at his laptop. Sherlock nodded.

"I read it on the plane. A Study in Pink. Nice."

"Well, you know, pink lady, pink case, pink phone...there was a lot of pink. Did you like it?"

Sherlock had picked up a magazine and was flipping through the pages, a frown coming to his features. He shot John a look.

"No." he said tightly. John looked at him confusion.

"Why not? I thought you'd be flattered." Sherlock lowered the magazine and glared at him.

"Flattered?" Sherlock sat up suddenly and raised his index finger, as through the laptop was in front of him and he was reading off the screen. "Sherlock sees through everything and everyone in seconds." he recited, sending a pointed look at John. "What's incredible, though, is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things."

"Now hang on a minute. I didn't mean that in a-"

"Oh, you meant "spectacularly ignorant" in a nice way! Look, it doesn't matter to me who's Prime Minister..."

"I know..." John interjected quietly. That had been topic of which many people at Scotland Yard hadn't let go, the inside joke between all of them now to ask Sherlock who it was. John suspected Sally and Anderson, but hadn't done much about it.

"Or who's sleeping with who..."

"Whether the Earth goes round the Sun." John muttered. Sherlock groaned.

"Not that again. It's not important!"

"It's primary school stuff. How can you not know that?" John asked incredulously. The Prime Minister was one thing, but Sherlock's lack of knowledge about the solar system was beyond him. Sherlock pressed his palms to his head, and groaned.

"Well, if I ever did, I've deleted it."

"Deleted it?" Sherlock sighed and looked at John.

"Listen." Sherlock pointed to his head with one finger "This is my hard drive, and it only makes sense to put things in there that are useful." He looked John up and down, then looked away. "Ordinary people fill their heads with all this rubbish, and it makes it hard to get to what really matters. For me, it's my work."

"But it's the solar system!" John burst out. Sherlock moaned and buried his face in his hands.

"Oh, hell! What does that matter?!" He looked at John in frustration.

"So we go round the Sun! If we went round the Moon, or round and round the garden like a teddy bear, it wouldn't make any difference." Sherlock ruffled his hair in his hands, the curls now sticking up in random directions.

"Put that in your blog. Or better still, stop inflicting your opinions on the world." Sherlock tossed the magazine onto the coffee table and curled into a ball, then wrapped his dressing gown tightly around himself. John pursed his lips, holding in the not so kind words he wanted to say. He stood up and stalked over to the door. Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air." he replied tightly, throwing on his coat and opening the door. He bumped into Mrs. Hudson in his haste and apologized quickly. She smiled at him, then knocked on the door.

"Hello!" she greeted, walking inside. Sherlock stayed in his ball, not acknowledging her.

"You two had a bit of a domestic, hm?" she tried again, setting bags on the table in the kitchen. Sherlock shot up, stepping on the coffee table to get over it and going to the window. He watched John walk away as a heavy feeling settled in his chest.

"Look at him, Mrs. Hudson. Quiet, calm, peaceful." Sherlock sighed. "Isn't it hateful?"

"Oh, cheer up! I'm sure something will come in, a nice murder!" she replied brightly. As Mrs. Hudson turned to leave the flat, she stopped and glared at the wall.

"Hey, what have you done to my bloody wall?!" she exclaimed. Sherlock smiled and chuckled slightly. "I'm putting that on your rent young man!" she huffed and left the flat, making Sherlock chuckle again. He slowly walked away from the window to stand in the middle of the room. Letting out a sigh, Sherlock's shoulders sagged and he slouched forward.

The explosion that blasted open the windows and and sent glass flying knocked Sherlock right off his feet, and hit the floor hard. All the detective could do was groan at his misfortune.

John had cooled down quite a bit within the first 5 minutes of his walk, leaving him cold and unbelievably hungry. He was now waiting in a Chinese restaurant, his order already taken and the food being made. John supposed he understood why Sherlock reacted the way he did. The man relied on John's presence and affections to be happy, and after being gone for 4 days, then having his plan to surprise him foiled, it was enough to make anyone irritable. And, calling him ignorant hadn't been the best choice of words. Sherlock did take offense pretty easily, especially from those who mattered to him. Adding to that, the case in Belarus seemed to have done nothing but bore him and take him away from Baker Street, so Sherlock's behavior was a bit justified.

John's order was called out, and he thanked the man at the counter as he grabbed the bags of food. The meal smelled heavenly, and John couldn't wait to dig into it. He shivered at the brisk London air and wished that he had worn a warmer coat. Suddenly, a siren blared past John, catching him off guard. Squad cars and an ambulance sped down the street and John felt his blood go a bit cold. They were headed right in the direction of the flat.

"Easy there. Sherlock is fine. Nothing happened." he thought, trying to calm himself. And much to his relief, they were at the building opposite the flat. The first floor of the building was torn open, all the room exposed to the chilly night air. Still, the flat's windows were completely blown in from what he could tell. John was stopped by an officer as he tried to go to the flat.

"Sir, please stay back-"

"I live there, can I go in?" he pointed over to 221, and the officer nodded then let him past. John walked in and saw that not much damage had been done to the first floor. A few of Mrs. Hudson's picture frames lay on the ground and the side table she kept out there was overturned. He bounded up the stairs and the scene in front of him made John freeze. Glass and wood littered the floor, and all the papers that had been on the desk lay haphazardly on the floor. Many of Sherlock's book had been cleared from their shelves, and his laptop was sitting preciously on the edge of the desk.

But still, there was no Sherlock in sight.

"Sherlock?!" John's voice sounded a bit strangled as he looked around for the detective.

"I'm in here, John." Sherlock smooth voice floated out to him and John ran to it, letting out a sigh of relief when he laid his eyes on the man. Sherlock was standing in the bathroom, inspecting himself in front of the mirror. John stared at Sherlock, his eyes taking in the sight.

"Oh, you got dinner."

John dropped the bags in his hands and ruses forward to seize Sherlock in a hug. The taller man staggered backwards from the impact and looked down at John in confusion.

"John-" Sherlock was cut off by John's lips pressing against his in a deep embrace. Sherlock kissed him back, sensing a feverish tone behind it. John pulled away and held Sherlock's face in his hands.

"Oh Jesus Christ, Sherlock, thank god, you're okay..." he searched Sherlock for any injuries and his eyes settled on a cut on his hand. John hurriedly went to the cabinet in the bathroom and pulled out the first aid kit.

"John, I'm quite alright. It's just a scratch." Sherlock protested, but stopped when John turned and looked at him. He remained quiet and sat down on the edge of the tub as John took out disinfectant and bandages, then went to work on Sherlock's hand.

"Jesus, Sherlock. What happened?" John shook his head in disbelief. The detective shrugged. "Not much. After you left a bomb detonated and I cut my hand on some glass. Nothing major."

"Nothing major?!" John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes wide and his brows furrowed. "Sherlock, you could've been seriously hurt! You...You could have died!" his voice cracked at the end and Sherlock stared at him with surprise.

"John, I would have been-"

"No." John grabbed Sherlock's shoulders and held him tightly. "Do not tell me you would've been fine. You could have been injured very badly, and the last thing I would've ever said to you was about the bloody solar system! So, do not say you would've have been fine, okay? Do you understand me?" John breathed out and pulled Sherlock into a crushing hug. "Jesus Christ..." he muttered, swallowing hard. Sherlock wrapped his arms around the shorter man and nodded, squeezing him tightly.

"Alright, John. I understand."

John nodded and swallowed again, then pulled away and went back to Sherlock's hand. They sat in silence for a few minutes as John bandages Sherlock's cut gently. Sherlock cleared his throat then looked at John.

"Just so we're clear, you do realize that the explosion wasn't here, correct?"

"Yes, Sherlock. I know that." He sighed and sat back on the cool tile floor. "My mind just went to the worst possible thing and all I could think about was you hurt or something far more..." John looked at his fists, the memories of many men lost at the hands of explosives coursing through his mind. "Gruesome." He let out a shaky breath and looked up at Sherlock. "Sorry."

Sherlock shook his head and grabbed the sides of John face. "Please do not apologize to me when the situation does not justify it. It is highly tedious and a waste of time, John. It's alright." He leaned in and pressed his lips to John's, trying to calm the doctor. John relaxed into the gesture and held Sherlock's arms, clutching the silky blue dressing gown tightly. Explosions and heavy gunfire and things of the like always managed to rile John up, making his mind go back into its war state. Sherlock himself had seen it happened on three times, this occasion being the third. He before had let John be, not wanting to impose or ruin some type of ritual he had set in place. But now, it was Sherlock's duty to help John, was it not? He didn't press against John, only letting their lips brush and their bodies remain in close proximity. John was relying on Sherlock's presence at the moment, and the detective was eager to give it to him.

Suddenly, John's stomach let loose a long, gurgling growl, and the doctor pulled back sheepishly. Sherlock look notice of the discarded bags of Chinese that had been dropped on the floor when John found him and gestured to them.

"Should I grab plates?"

"If you would be so inclined." John replied, picking himself up off the floor. Sherlock followed, rising from the edge of the bathtub and exiting the bathroom behind John. He shivered as they walked out into the kitchen and scowled at the broken windows. John sighed.

"What are we supposed to do about this?" he moaned. Sherlock reached into his pocket and took out his phone which was, thankfully, unharmed and went to one of his few contacts.

"I suppose Mycroft could be of service."

"For someone only occupying a minor position in the British government, he does seem to have plenty of connections, hm?" John raised a brow and looked at Sherlock. The detective snorted and gave him a little nod. John shivered now, and looked ruefully at the room in front of them.

"God, it's going to he frigid tonight." John muttered, frowning. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's shoulders and kissed his neck.

"Mm, what a shame that'll be." he whispered. John looked back at him, seemingly unaffected by Sherlock's tone.

"Sorry Sherlock, but that Chinese is winning over your art of seduction."

"Me? Seducing? Absolute _blasphemy._" Sherlock looked scandalized, and John laughed. They parted and Sherlock went to the cupboard to grab two plates. John glanced around at the state of disarray and sighed again. All that glass was going to be a pain to clean. He supposed that if they asked, Mycroft would send in a crew to clean. Even if they didn't ask, he would probably send them. John wasn't sure whether to feel grateful or pestered by Mycroft's slightly obsessive behavior. He tucked the thought away and turned back to Sherlock who frankly, looked freezing in his pajamas and dressing gown.

"Let's eat in the bedroom."

"And risk ruining that gorgeous bedding? I don't know..." John said, honestly worried about soiling what he knew was a very expensive, and very comfortable duvet. Sherlock scoffed and headed off into his bedroom, taking the plates with him. John shot the living room another distasteful look, then went off after Sherlock.

The temperature difference was obvious upon entering, and John sighed at the warmth as he closed the door behind him. Sherlock had placed each plate on a tray and sat cross-legged on top of the blankets. John placed the bags down, then climbed onto the bed. He opened the first bag and drew out chicken lo mien, to which Sherlock automatically reacted. He seized it from John's hands and began to plop the noodles on his own plate. No matter what Sherlock liked people to think, he did eat and he did have favorite foods. And he never passed up a favorite food. John chuckled and reached back in the bag to grab a smaller container. He put two eggrolls on his plates and Sherlock made a disgusted noise.

"Those are the most repugnant, detesting things I have ever tasted-"

"Shut it." John replied, picking one up and taking a large bite. Sherlock made a gagging noise, then somehow, took a graceful bite of lo mien. John had always believed that it was impossible to look refined while chowing down on fried food, but Sherlock managed to prove him wrong again. However, his royal like aura crumbled and he tore into the food with little poise. John did just the same, thoroughly enjoying the greasiness and scent of their dinner. Somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought occurred that perhaps this wasn't really healthy.

John was too busy snarfing down fried rice to give a damn.

Sherlock let out a fulfilled sigh and leaned back against the pillows, full from everything he had ate. John had finished a few minutes ago and was lying face down in the bed.

"I'll feel like I weigh a million stones." he muttered. Sherlock looked over at him.

"You still don't compare to Mycroft." They both laughed at that, then descended into silence. John looked over at the bedside alarm clock and sighed at the time.

"I can't believe it's only 9:30." he said, rolling onto his side. Sherlock looked over at him with an eyebrow raised.

"Tired?"

"More than you can imagine. It takes a bit out of a guy to not see his boyfriend for 3 days and then come home to him shooting holes in the wall." Sherlock stiffened a bit and the corners of his mouth turned down.

"What is it? Look, I didn't mean it in a bad-"

"You said I was your boyfriend." Sherlock said, his voice dropping a bit. John stared at him, then nodded slowly.

"Uh, yeah. That's what we are, right? Boyfriends." Sherlock picked up on an undertone of hurt in John's voice and nodded quickly. The shorter man relaxed at this and so did Sherlock.

"I guess we never really discussed what to call each other. Do you not like the title boyfriend, or-"

"No, no, it's alright," Sherlock reached out and took John's hand in his own, interlacing their fingers. "You've just never said it before. I suppose I do like it..." Sherlock's voice trailed off at the end and John smiled. He scooted closer to the detective and kissed him.

"I'll say it as much as you like." John whispered, their lips still brushing. Sherlock made a noise in the back of his throat and pushed forward, capturing John's mouth with his own. The doctor hummed in the gesture, then held the detective's face gently. Sherlock moved and he was soon on top of John, their bodies pressed close. John groaned quietly, and took Sherlock's bottom lip between his two and sucked lightly. Sherlock pulled away and for a moment, John thought he'd done something wrong, but their lips were back together the next instance. Sherlock moved his hips against John's, his breath hot as he moaned. John's hands traveled down Sherlock's back and to his arse, feeling the lean muscle. He squeezed Sherlock's bottom, and the detective's breath hitched. Sherlock pulled away, his breathing heavy. John licked his lips at the sight of Sherlock so flustered and was suddenly self conscious of the erection he was sporting.

"You're going to ruin me, John." Sherlock murmured, his voice low. John smirked and flipped them over before dipping down to kiss Sherlock's neck. He sucked at the pale skin and nipped slightly. Sherlock moaned, and his long fingers ran through John's hair. The doctor trailed kisses all along Sherlock's sharp jawline before returning to his mouth.

God, John loved Sherlock's lips. Whether they were moving at a million miles per hour during a deduction or bright pink and swelled like they were now, John found himself enticed by them. They were always soft, always perfect and very kissable. John flicked his tongue over Sherlock's bottom lip, then darted into the detective's open mouth. Cool hands ran down John's sides and pulled his hips closer. John rutted up against Sherlock, the friction driving him mad. Sherlock moaned again, and pulled back from John.

"G-God John," his breathing was heavy and he licked his lips. "Just do something. I've never been in this situation before and I apologize, but please just do something." Sherlock's voice strained and he sounded desperate. John nodded, and struggled to catch his breath. He had the notion up until a few months ago that Sherlock was an asexual, or perhaps just found sex unnecessary and boring. He would've loved to take Sherlock right now, but truthfully, John didn't think that it was the appropriate time for it. In all of his past relationships, sex had always occurred on the second, if not first date. But with Sherlock, John didn't feel as though they needed it. He was perfectly content with the way they were, and that just so happened to be without sex. So instead, he ran a hand down Sherlock's abdomen and came to a rest at his baggy pajama pants which frankly, were doing nothing to hide how aroused the man was.

"How bad do you want me, Sherlock? How much do you want me to touch you?" John whispered, inching the bottoms down achingly slow. Sherlock made a strangled noise and his hands flew to John's belt.

"Just as bad as you want me, John." Sherlock growled, and he palmed John's erection. The superior, more in control cover John had tried to pull crumbled now and he nearly melted from Sherlock's touch.

"Ahh, fuck..." he moaned, pushing his hand into Sherlock's pants and taking hold of Sherlock's cock. He ran his thumb over the head, smearing precum on the skin. Sherlock shivered beneath him and fumbled with John's belt. He managed to undo it, then unbuttoned John's jeans and unzipped the fly. Sherlock pulled the pants down as far as he could, then John shimmied out of them and kicked them off. Sherlock's eyes followed John's body down, taking in every little detail. His hands followed, feeling the warmth that radiated from his skin. God, this man was absolutely beautiful. Sherlock pulled John down for another kiss and moved his hips up to meet John's.

"Fuck Sherlock, you're so gorgeous." John kissed the side of his neck down to his collarbone and sucked at the skin. John's hand brought Sherlock's cock out of his pants and he gave it a firm stroke. Sherlock made a broken noise and moaned John's name. His cool hands pushed John's briefs down to his thighs and the doctor swore at the temperature difference. His curse melted into a moan as Sherlock began to pump him. John tried to retain his composure and take control of the situation by wrapping his hand around both he and Sherlock's cocks. The detective let out a shuttering noise as John stroked the both of them, going painstakingly slow and whispering in Sherlock's ear.

"You don't know how good you look Sherlock. Everything about you is stunning." he kissed Sherlock roughly and pulled away. "You're so flustered and you look so damn good like this." John bit off this last word and went back to kissing and sucking Sherlock's neck. His hand still pumped the two of them together and Sherlock was reduced to a moaning, shivering mess.

"Oh god," he panted. "John, I'm close-"

"Good." John nipped at Sherlock neck and sucked on the spot. "I want to see you come undone, Sherlock. I bet you look beautiful when you come." John lowered his voice and whispered in Sherlock's ear, his breath hot against the skin. Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair and tugged at the strands. He moaned into John's mouth as they kissed and his breath hitched. Sherlock's fingers clutched the man's back and his finger nails dug into his skin. John quickened his pace and dipped his head down to nip at Sherlock's collar bone.

"O-Oh fuck, John!" Sherlock shouted his name as he came, and John followed after him with a low moan. They stayed like that for a minute, the two men panting and struggling to catch their breath. John collapsed next to Sherlock with a heavy sigh and looked over at his boyfriend.

"Good?" he asked. Sherlock's curls were sticking to his forehead and his cheeks were flushed an deep pink. His eyes were closed as he nodded, his lips parting to take in a breath.

"Jesus fuck..." he sighed, making John laugh. The doctor pulled him close and pressed a kiss to his forehead. Sherlock's hands trembled as he interlaced them with John's and exhaled against the man's skin.

"I'm bloody spent." Sherlock chuckled a little and relaxed against John, his body warm and a bit slick, John sighed and looked down at Sherlock. "We have to get cleaned up you know." he said, making Sherlock groan. The detective sighed again.

"Must we?"

"Sherlock, I'm not going to sleep covered in semen and have the room reek of fried food and sweat. Come on." John sat up and propped Sherlock up with him, then all but dragged him out of the bed. John was a bit shaky on his feet, but Sherlock was similar to a fawn in his movements. John looked at him with a raised eyebrow as they went into the bathroom.

"You alright?"

"Of course." Sherlock scoffed. He shrugged off his dressing gown and pants. "I'm just a bit...new to a climax of that sort." John snorted and unbuttoned his shirt, letting it drop to the floor carelessly. Sherlock clicked his tongue as he looked in the mirror.

"Look at these, John. You marked me like a bloody canvas!" Sherlock gestured at the hickeys that now showed on his neck, bright red and stark in contrast. John smiled sheepishly, a tad embarrassed by how many he's put along Sherlock's neck and collar bones.

"Whoops, sorry."

"You feel no remorse for these actions. Do not try and act like it." John laughed and shrugged a bit. They both headed into the shower and quickly washed, then went back into the bedroom. Sherlock complained and griped while he and John changed the sheets, not bothering to make them even slightly neat. They were both drained as they finally climbed back into bed, and settled amongst the warm bedding. John was pulled close to Sherlock and the taller man had his arms wrapped around John. They lay there in near silence, just focusing on the breathing patterns and sounds of one another. It was astonishing to Sherlock to feel this happy, to truly feel as if all were right in the world in this moment, with John in his arms, John who was his amazing, loyal, perfect, perfect, _perfect_ boyfriend and best friend and just his entire world.

John couldn't have agreed more wholeheartedly.

* * *

_wow what a long ass chapter_

_so yeah moriarty's gonna be making an appearance_

_hope everyone's ready_


	12. Chapter 12

John awoke around 10:30 the next day, and lazily stretched an arm over Sherlock.

Or rather, the empty space where Sherlock was supposed to be. He groggily opened his eyes and frowned at the rustled sheets that were clearly lacking a certain detective. John sighed and reached over to the beside table to retrieve his phone. He flitted quickly through the contact list and found Sherlock's number. He opened a new message, then paused to think about what to say.

**"Missing: One consulting detective. 6'2, drop dead gorgeous and great at lie ins. Reward shall be administered upon return."** John smiled to himself and sent the text. He had just settled back into the pillows when he heard a text tone sound off in the living room.

_"What's he doing in there?"_ John thought. He was a bit offended, because in his opinion, he was a lot more interesting than whatever Sherlock was getting into. His ears picked up on not one, but two voices and John groaned.

"Mycroft."

Annoyed, he willed himself to push back the blankets and leave the bed. John wobbled a bit on his feet but steadied instantaneously. He pattered over to the full-size mirror and looked himself over. An old t-shirt and a pair of red briefs were all he wore, and John sighed as he walked over to the dresser to pull out a pair of loose pants. A good portion of John's wardrobe had migrated into Sherlock's room now, and having to go up to his room for clothing was uncommon. He pulled on the bottoms and briefly wondered whether he really wanted to see, let alone converse with Mycroft at this hour. Sherlock's clipped, annoyed tone floated to him and John sighed.

It wasn't really fair to make Sherlock suffer alone.

He opened the otherwise ajar door and stepped through, shivering at the cooler temperature. The chill was nowhere as bad as it was last night when the windows had been shattered, but it was still quite uncomfortable given the thin material of John's pajamas. He walked down the hallway in out into the kitchen, stopping at the edge of the living room. Sherlock's eyes flicked to him and Mycroft took notice, turning around in the armchair to give John a subtle smile.

"Ah, good morning Doctor Watson." he greeted. John smiled tightly.

"Morning." he replied, looking past the older Holmes to Sherlock. The detective's brows were furrowed and his long fingers picked irritably at the strings of his violin.

"I can't." Sherlock said, looking at Mycroft. His older brother frowned.

"Can't?"

"Yes, Mycroft." Sherlock nearly spat out the name. "The stuff I have going on his just too big. I cannot possibly spare the time."

Mycroft sighed at his younger brother. "Never mind your usual trivia, Sherlock. This is of national importance." Sherlock studied his fingernails and made a face, as if they actually interested him.

How's the diet?" he asked, sending Mycroft a pointed look.

"Fine." Mycroft sighed again. "John, perhaps you can get through to him?"

While the brothers were waging war against each other, John had walked closer to the window to inspect the damage. He jumped at his name being said, and nearly stepped on some glass.

"Huh?"

"My brother can be very stubborn and childish. Especially when he's in a sulk." Sherlock plucked a string loudly and glared at Mycroft.

"If you're so keen, why don't you investigate it?" Mycroft looked scandalized at this proposal.

"No, no, no! I can't possibly be away from the office for any length of time. Not with the Korean elections so..." his voice trailed off as if he suddenly realized who he was talking to. John looked at him in surprise and Sherlock even stopped plucking the strings.

"Well, you don't need to know about that, do you?" he smiled humorously and the message to forget what had just been said hung heavily in the air. Besides, a case like this, it requires..." Mycroft grimaced in distaste. "Legwork."

Sherlock misplucked one of the strings and sighed irritably. The elder Holmes now turned to John and smiled a bit.

"Sherlock's business seems to be booming since you and he became..." Mycroft gave John a knowing look, and the doctor could've sworn he saw something close to gratefulness flash by. "Pals." Mycroft settled on that word and Sherlock tried to smite him with a dark look.

"What's he like to live with? Hellish, I imagine."

"Oh, I'm never bored." John looked at Sherlock and smiled a bit. The detective didn't smile back, but his sour expression softened a tad.

"Good! That's good, isn't it?" he replied, smiling condescendingly. Sherlock glared at him and John let out a small sigh. Mycroft now rose from the chair, and Sherlock picked up his bow then whipped one end down through the air. The government official gave him a pestered look, then picked up a folder. He offered it to Sherlock, who did nothing but give him a stubborn look. Mycroft grimaced and resisted the urge to say something very impolite. He now turned to John and held out the folder.

"Andrew West. Known as Westie to his friends."

John looked startled as he took the folder

"A civil servant, found dead on the tracks at Battersea Station this morning with his head smashed in."

"Jumped in front of a train?"

"Seems the logical assumption." Mycroft said. John turned his head and quirked a brief smile.

"But?"

"But?" Mycroft repeated. Sherlock looked over in interest.

"You wouldn't be here if it was just an accident." Sherlock smirked to himself as he applied rosin to the bow with a small cloth. John quirked a brow at him and Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"The M.O.D. is working on a new missile defence system. The Bruce-Partington Programme, it's called. The plans for it were on a memory stick."

"That wasn't very clever." John said, sniggering quietly. Sherlock smiled in agreement and shot his brother a proud look.

"It's not the only copy."

"Oh:"

"But, it is secret." He glared at Sherlock." And missing."

"Top secret?" John asked. Mycroft nodded.

"Very. We think West must have taken the memory stick. We can't possibly risk it falling into the wrong hands." Mycroft turned around to Sherlock and gave him an irritated look.

"You've got to find those plans, Sherlock. Don't make me order you."

Sherlock took a sharp breath in through his nose and raised the violin to his shoulder, ready to play. He gazed calmly at his brother.

"I'd like to see you try."

Mycroft leaned down to his brother in an attempt to look more threatening. "Think it over."

Sherlock stared at his older brother, unimpressed. Mycroft sighed and turned back to John. He stuck out his hand.

"Goodbye, John." They shook hands, and Mycroft smiled at him. John saw how it didn't reach his eyes, but returned the gesture.

"See you very soon." John attempted not to look nervous as Mycroft headed back toward the chair to pick up his coat. Sherlock's eyes connected with Mycroft's and the detective grab to repeatedly play a short irritating sequence of notes. John frowned at him, but he continued on until Mycroft had left the room and was descending the stairs. Sherlock scowled at the door, then laid down his violin. John stayed silent until Mycroft reached the ground floor, then sighed.

"Why'd you lie?"

Sherlock looked over at him as the front door slammed shut.

"You've got nothing on, not a single case. That's why the wall took a pounding. Why did you tell your brother you were busy?" Sherlock shrugged and slumped down in his chair. Despite what he liked to believe, Sherlock did keep up appearances when Mycroft was around, whether is was maintaining perfect posture or speaking in a more distant manner.

"Why shouldn't I?

"Oh!" John said, nodding. "Sibling rivalry. Now we're getting somewhere."

Sherlock opened his mouth the retort, but closed it when his phone began to shrill. He whipped the bow down and retrieved his phone from his pocket.

"Sherlock Holmes." he snapped, not caring whoever was on the line. He went quiet, then a small smile dawned on his lips.

"Yes, of course." He jumped from his seat and went over to the coat rack, then looked back at John.

"I've been summoned by Lestrade. Coming?"

"If you want me to." John replied. In truth, he was fine with staying home on this one. Although, he wouldn't object to going out with Sherlock either. Sherlock looked shocked at his answer.

Of course. I'd be lost without my blogger."

* * *

One quick cab ride later, John and Sherlock were at Scotland Yard, currently in the main office as they followed Lestrade. The DI led them to his own office as he spoke about the case.

"You like the funny ones, don't you? The surprising cases?"

"Obviously." Sherlock sighed. He rolled his eyes and sent the older man a look. Lestrade ignored this and continued on.

"You'll love this one then. So the explosion last night..." Sherlock blocked out what Lestrade was saying long enough to exchange glares with Donovan. He picked up on what Lestrade was saying at the last second.

"Ah, yes. Gas leak, correct?"

"That's what we thought." he replied. "But no."

"No?" Sherlock repeated, raising an eyebrow. Lestrade shook his head.

"No. It was made to look like one."

"What?" John said, turning and staring at him. By now, they were in Lestrade's office and he led them towards his desk. Sherlock stopped and stared at the white envelope that was lying on the surface.

"There was hardly anything left of the place after the explosion, except a strong box. And a very strong box at that. This was only the only thing inside."

"You haven't opened it yet?" Sherlock asked. Lestrade gestured at it.

"It's addressed to you, isn't it?" he said. Sherlock reached for it and ran his fingers over the paper.

"We x-rayed it. Not booby-trapped of anything."

"How reassuring." he muttered. Sherlock hesitated a moment, then picked up the envelope. He walked across the room to another table with a lamp on it. He held the envelope up close to the bulb and examined both sides carefully. His eyes flickered over his name, which was elegantly written on the front.

"Nice stationery. Bohemian."

"Bohemian?"

"From the Czech Republic." He turned to face Lestrade. "No fingerprints?"

"None."

Sherlock turned back to the envelope and aquifer as he looked at it. His eyes studied the penmanship closely.

"She used a fountain pen. A Parker Duofold – iridium nib."

"She?" John repeated. How could Sherlock possibly know her gender? All he had was his name on a piece of parchment!

"Obviously." Sherlock replied, and John struggled not to sigh. Sherlock picked up a letter opener from the desk carefully began to slit the envelope open. He carefully looked inside, and John saw his mouth open a bit in surprise. He reached in and drew out a pink phone.

"But that's...that's the phone, the pink phone." John said, shocked.

"What, from the Study in Pink?" Lestrade asked. Sherlock nodded.

"Well, obviously it's not the same phone but it's supposed to look like ..." Sherlock stops when he realized what Lestrade had just said. He turned and faced him with a peculiar look on his face.

"The Study in Pink? You read his blog?"

"Course I read his blog! We all do. Do you really not know that the Earth goes round the Sun?"

Sally, who had stopped in to leave some files on Lestrade's desk sniggered loudly. Sherlock glared at her as he took off his gloves and John pursed his lips in embarrassment, not daring to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sally left the room and Sherlock turned his concentration back to the phone.

"It isn't the same phone. This one's brand new." Sherlock said as he inspected it. He looked at the connection sockets and saw that none of them had scratches around them. Obviously taken right out the package before being sent.

"Someone's gone to a lot of trouble to make it look like the same phone, which means your blog has a far wider readership." He looked at John with an accusatory look, who did his best to ignore it. Sherlock switched the phone on and waited as it started up. As soon as the screen was illuminated, a voice alert sounded.

"You have one new message." The recorded voice said. The message went on to play, but what was heard was far from what they expected. The unmistakable sound of the Greenwich Time Signal filled the room and left everyone confused.

"Is that it?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head and continued to stare at the phone.

"No. That's not it." A photo had been uploaded to the phone and Sherlock opened it. Lestrade walked across the room to look over Sherlock's shoulder, while John pressed in close to the detective The picture was of an unfurnished room with a fireplace on one wall. The wallpaper was peeling, and a tall mirror was propped up in one corner. A smaller mirror sat on top of the mantlepiece.

What the hell are we supposed to make of that?" Lestrade exclaimed. "An estate agent's photo and the bloody Greenwich pips!"

Sherlock stayed silent a moment, gazing off thoughtfully into the distance. "It's a warning."

A warning?" John repeated. Sherlock nodded.

"Some secret societies used to send dried melon seeds, orange pips, things like that. Five pips. They're warning us it's going happen again." Sherlock looked down at the photo once more, then threw the phone at Lestrade. He caught it and Sherlock walked out of the office.

"I've seen this place before."

"H-hang on." John said, following. "What's gonna happen again?"

Sherlock turned around to John and raised his hands dramatically.

"Boom!"

As he and John headed off, Lestrade sighed. He grabbed his coat, stuck the phone in the pocket, and hurried after the pair.

* * *

After a mildly cramped ride where the three of them had shared a cab, Lestrade, Sherlock and John exited out in front of 221. Sherlock bounded up the steps and unlocked the front door, then lead the way inside. He bypassed the stairs and headed along the corridor to Mrs. Hudson's front door, then stopped. He turned to the left and John really noticed for the first time that there was a door there. It read 221c, and the doctor suddenly remembered Mrs. Hudson fretting over how it remained empty. Sherlock turned back to their landlady's front door and opened his mouth to let out a yell.

"Mrs. Hudson!" A minute went by before the woman opened her door and smiled at the men in front of her.

"Ah, hello! What do you boys need?" She asked.

"Keys, Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock muttered. "We need to to be let into here." The detective was busy inspecting the padlock on the door and scowling. John offered Mrs. Hudson a small smile as she went off to retrieve the keys. Sherlock looked back at John, who's annoyance was clear. Really, John had not expected, nor wanted to spend the day like this. After the brilliance of the previous night, he was more inclined to repeat it, and lounge around. But then again, this was Sherlock he was in a relationship with. And Sherlock's work meant a lot to him, for it was one of three things that helped stop the crazy, frantic sort of buzz in his mind. The first was John himself, and the last was drugs. And Sherlock was definitely not going to rely on drugs. While Lestrade was occupied looking at some of the photos Mrs. Hudson had on the wall (one being of John and Sherlock themselves, the two somehow caught smiling and looking like total morons), Sherlock pulled away from the door and turned to John. He took the man's hands in his own and squeezed slightly. John ran his thumbs over the top of Sherlock's hands and sighed slightly. Leaning down a tad, Sherlock kissed John lightly. The gesture was quick and over in a flash, but John understood its meaning. Sherlock knew how John felt, and what he would rather be doing, but he needed him. Sherlock needed John to be here by his side and help solve this case, perhaps saying "brilliant" and "amazing" a few times. When Mrs. Hudson came back with the key ring, Sherlock had gone back to the padlock and John was fighting the urge to kiss his boyfriend one more time. Sherlock took the keys and began to unlock the door.

"You had a look, didn't you, Sherlock, when you first came to see about your flat." Mrs. Hudson said to the detective who was clearly tuning here out. He inspected the keyhole carefully and frowned.

"The door's been opened recently."

"No, can't be." she replied. "That's the only key."

Pulling the padlock off, Sherlock selected another key and put it into the keyhole.

"I can't get anyone interested in this flat. It's the damp, I expect. That's the curse of basements." she sighed. Sherlock turned the key and pulled the door open. He immediately went inside and John and Lestrade followed, taking little notice of Mrs. Hudson as she continued to ramble on.

"I had a place once when I was first married. Black mould all up the walls..." She trailed to a halt as Lestrade closed the door behind him. Exasperated, she turned back to her flat.

"Oh! Men!"

Reaching the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock slowly pushed open the door to the living room and walked inside, followed by John and Lestrade. The room looked exactly as it did in the photograph on the phone, but with one exception.

There was a pair of trainers placed neatly in the middle of the floor, their toes pointed towards the door. John stopped and looked at them.

"Shoes." he said, stating the obvious. Sherlock nodded and began to walk towards them, but John held out a cautionary hand towards him.

"He's a bomber, remember." Sherlock stopped for a moment and made eye contact with John, then continued slowly towards the trainers. He crouched down, putting his hands on the floor and leaning forward. He lowered his body down he moved closer to the shoes and just as his nose was almost touching them, a phone began to ring. Sherlock jumped and closed his eyes momentarily as he breathed out, startled by it. He stood up and pulled off his glove, then took the pink phone from his coat pocket and looked at the caller I.D.

"NUMBER BLOCKED" it read, and Sherlock's brows furrowed. He paused for a second, then answered the phone.

"Hello?" he said softly. In response, a female voice drew in a shaky breath before speaking tearfully.

_"H-hello ... sexy."_ John and Lestrade exchanged puzzled looks as the woman sobs echoed in the room.

"Who's this?" Sherlock asked slowly. The woman drew in another quivering breath and held back a sob.

_"I've ... sent you ... a little puzzle ... just to say hi."_

"Who's talking? Why are you crying?"

_"I-I'm not...crying..."_ she said, her voice shaking. _"I'm typing...and this...stupid... bitch...is reading it out."_

Another sob broke from the phone's speaker and Sherlock gazed off into the distance.

"The curtain rises." he said quietly.

"What?" John asked, frowning.

"Nothing." Sherlock replied quickly, straightening his already stiff posture. John shook his head.

"No, what did you mean?"

Sherlock half turned his head to look at John. "I've been expecting this for some time."

"Twelve hours," the woman sobbed. _"To solve ... my puzzle, Sherlock ..."_ John and Lestrade looked at each other again, both men's face set into hard frowns.

_"... or I'm going ... to be ... so naughty."_

* * *

Another cab later, John and Sherlock were at St. Bart's. Lestrade had insisted that he must go back to Scotland Yard, saying something about a massive amount paperwork. John had nodded and expressed his sympathies, but Sherlock knew the real reason behind. Yes, it was true that he had paperwork, since Lestrade kept on touching the pen he had in his trouser pocket and frowning when he did. But more than that, he rather wanted to be able to text in peace. Giving a case to his boyfriend's little brother when said boyfriend already had one he wished solved wasn't the wisest choice in the book.

But Sherlock said none of that and Lestrade drove off while John and he entered the hospital. Sherlock had asked Molly to secure a lab for him, and she didn't disappoint. Within 15 minutes, Sherlock was in his lab and pulling on a pair of latex gloves. He looked closely at the trainers, picking them up. Sherlock examined the laces carefully, then peered at the shoes from different directions. He dug out mud from the the treads in the soles of the trainers, then placed it in a dish. Finally releasing the shoes, Sherlock let out a little sigh and stared at them thoughtfully.

Later, he was sitting at a bench and looking a microscope as the computer next to him ran tests. John wandered up and down the the bench in slight boredom, watching Sherlock work.

"So," he said. "Who do you suppose it was?"

Sherlock's phone trilled from a text alert, but the detective didn't acknowledge it. He glanced up at John.

"Hmm?"

"The woman on the phone." John replied. "The crying woman."

"Oh, she doesn't matter. She's just a hostage. No lead there."

"For God's sake, I wasn't thinking about leads!" He said in exasperation. He clenched his fists as annoyance began to build up again.

"You're not going to be much use to her." Sherlock told him. He glanced across to the scanner as it continued to throw up "NO MATCH" results, then looked back into the microscope.

"Are...Are they trying to trace it, trace the call?" John asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"The bomber's too smart for that."

Sherlock's phone went off another time and Sherlock sighed. He looked up at John with a fleeting glance.

Would you pass me my phone?" he asked. John looked around for the device but didn't see it anywhere.

"Where is it?"

"Jacket."

John straightened up slowly, his entire body going rigid in disbelief. Turning to his right, he marched stiffly around the table, slammed one hand onto Sherlock's shoulder and roughly pulled his jacket open with the other as he began to rummage in his inside pocket.

"Careful." Sherlock snapped, holding himself still against John's movements.

John just about held onto his temper as he pulled out the phone and looked at it.

"Text from your brother." he said tightly. Sherlock made a face in disgust.

"Delete it."

"Delete it?"

"Missile plans are out of the country now." he said. "Nothing we can do about it."

John looked at the message again, silently reading it.

**RE: BRUCE-PARTINGTON PLANS**  
**Any progress on Andrew**  
**West's death?**  
**Mycroft**

"Well, Mycroft thinks there is. He's texted you eight times. Must be important."

"Then why didn't he cancel his dental appointment?" Sherlock said, raising his head in exasperation.

"His what?" John asked as he let out a tired sigh. Honestly, he had enough of the Holmes brothers foolishness for one day. John made a silent prayer of their mother, wondering how the woman ever managed them.

"Mycroft never texts if he can talk." Sherlock said. "Look, Andrew West stole the missile plans, tried to sell them, got his head smashed in for his pains. End of story. The only mystery is this: why is my brother so determined to bore me when somebody else is being so delightfully interesting?" He huffed and turned back to the microscope again and John sighed.

"Try and remember there's a woman here who might die."

"What for?" Sherlock looked up at John. "This hospital's full of people dying, Doctor. Why don't you go and cry by their bedside and see what good it does them?"

John couldn't bring himself to look at Sherlock, unbeliveing that those words had just left the man's mouth. He held his mouth in a tight line and closed his eyes, trying to calm himself. God, he fucking hated Sherlock when he was like this. He turned into such a god dammed self centered, nearly emotionless moron. John understood that you were supposed to love a person even for their worst qualities, and no matter how much it occurred-

Wait.

_"Love? Oh bleeding Christ, there it is."_ John thought. _"Can I say that I love Sherlock? For godsakes, we've only been together for 2 months!"_ He let out a furious sounding breath and struggled to get a hold of himself. _"This isn't the proper time to think about this. A woman might be dead in less than 10 bloody hours and Sherlock is being such an uncaring fucking prick. Sod this."_ John felt a bit of a headache coming on and he sighed, still not looking at Sherlock. The detective had returned to his microscope with furrowed brows, but looked up again when the computer beeped with a result.

"Ah!" he said, delighted. Sherlock looked across to the screen which was flashing "SEARCH COMPLETE". In the same moment, Molly entered with a small smile.

"Any luck?" she asked. Sherlock nodded triumphantly.

"Oh, yes!"

Molly came over to look at the screen just as a man entered. He was young, with dark hair and eyes. He wore a pair of slacks and a slim fitting v neck shirt.

"Oh, sorry. I didn't ..." he began. Molly perked up immediately at his presence and her smile grew.

"Jim! Hi!"

Jim made as if to leave the room, but Molly stopped him.

"Come in! Come in!" she told him.

Sherlock glanced up to look at her briefly, running his eyes down her body. He made an instant deduction, then looked back into the microscope, uninterested.

"Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." Molly introduced, turning to look at Jim as he closed the door and walked back to her.

John turned to look at them and suddenly Molly's face went blank. Her smile turned apologetic.

"And, John...erm, John..."

"John Watson. Hi." he finished for her, giving Molly a small smile. He didn't think that they had really been properly introduced to one another, and he doubted Sherlock would have ever used his full name if he spoke about him. Jim smiled at him slightly.

"Hi." he replied. His focused was back on Sherlock within a second, staring at the detective. He gazed at him admiringly and his smile grew.

"So you're Sherlock Holmes." he said. "Molly's told me all about you. You on one of your cases?" He walked closer to Sherlock, forcing John to step out of his way. The army doctor stiffened and frowned.

"Jim works in I.T. upstairs." she told them. "That's how we met. Office romance." She and Jim giggled and John smiled. He truly was glad that she had found someone, and more so, had finally stopped pursuing Sherlock. The detective glanced briefly at Jim before returning to look into the microscope.

"Gay."

"Sorry, what?" Molly's smile faded as he spoke. Sherlock raised his head as he realized what he had just done.

"Nothing." Sherlock quickly said. "Um, hey." he looked at Jim and smiled falsely. Jim smiled admiringly at Sherlock as he lowered his hand. He knocked a dish off the the edge of the table and horror spread across his face as he scrambled to pick it up.

"Sorry!" Jim giggled nervously as he picked up the dish. John turned away, putting a hand over his face in second hand embarrassment as Sherlock looked at Jim in irritation while he put the dish back on the table. He looked over at Molly as he scratched his arm and wandered back towards her.

"Well, I'll better be off." he said. "I'll see you at the Fox, about six-ish?"

"Yeah!" she agreed, smiling. He stopped beside her and put a hand on her back, then looked back towards Sherlock.

"Bye."

"Bye." Molly said softly, looking at him affectionately. His gaze was focused on Sherlock and he paid no attention to his girlfriend.

"It was nice to meet you."

Sherlock ignored Jim as he continued to gaze at him wistfully. John shifted on his feet then broke the uncomfortable silence.

"You too." he replied. Jim blinked at him, looking awkward, then turned and left the room. Molly waited until the door was completely shut before turning to Sherlock.

"What do you mean, gay? We're together."

Sherlock looked across to her with an eyebrow raised. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

"Two and a half."

"No, it's three."

"Sherlock..." John warned.

"He's not gay!" Molly exclaimed furiously. "Why do you have to spoil...? He's not." she finished firmly.

"With that level of personal grooming?" Sherlock snorted. John gave him an odd look.

"Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? _I_ put product in my hair!"

"You wash your hair." Sherlock replied, turning to John sharply. He settled back into his seat with a sigh. "There's a difference. Tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines, those tired clubber's eyes. Then there's his underwear."

"His underwear?" Molly echoed.

"Visible above the waistline." Sherlock replied. "Very visible; very particular brand." Sherlock stretched and reached for the dish that Jim had knocked over.

"That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here..." Sherlock picked up the card and flashed it to Molly. "Well, I'd say you'd better break it off now and save yourself the pain."

Molly went silent, her brows furrowed and a shaking frown on her face. She stared at Sherlock for a moment, then turned and ran out of the room. Sherlock's eyes widened in surprise at her reaction.

"Charming. Well done." John muttered, shaking his head. Sherlock looked at him in confusion.

"Just saving her time. Isn't that kinder?"

"Kinder?" John repeated. He made an exasperated noise. "No, no, Sherlock. That wasn't kind."

Sherlock looked fed up with the conversation and put Jim's card back onto the table. He sighed, then slid one of the trainers on the table closer to John.

"Go on, then."

"Mmm?"

"You know what I do." he said. "Off you go." Sherlock sat back and folded his arms expectantly. John made incoherent, negative noises and looked at his watch.

"No."

"Go on." Sherlock urged. John shook his head.

"I'm not gonna stand here so you can humiliate me while I try and disseminate-"

"An outside eye, a second opinion." Sherlock interjected. "It's very useful to me."

"Yeah, right."

"Really."

John turned back to him and their eyes connected. Sherlock's gaze was steady, and it showed John that yes, he was sincere in his wish for a second opinion. Frankly, John wasn't in the mood to talk to Sherlock, let alone deduce for him. However, John figured that if it could help Sherlock get on with this case, and they might be able to save this poor woman, he would do what Sherlock asked of him.

"Fine." John said, caving in. Clearing his throat, he picked up the shoe and looked at it and its partner lying on the table

"I dunno, they're just a pair of shoes." John said. "Trainers." he corrected immediately.

"Good." Sherlock looked away and picked up his phone as John continues looking at the trainers.

"Umm...they're in good nick. I'd say they were pretty new...except the sole has been well-worn, so the owner must have had them for a while."

Sherlock, who had started to look frustrated when John said they were new, breathed out a silent sigh of relief that his boyfriend wasn't that oblivious.

"Uh, they're very eighties, probably one of those retro designs."

"You're on sparkling form." Sherlock praised. "What else?"

"Well, they're quite big, so a man's."

"But ...?"

John looked at the insides of both shoes and noticed blue smudges at the sides.

"But there's traces of a name inside in felt-tip. Adults don't write their names inside their shoes, so these belonged to a kid."

"Excellent. What else?" Sherlock said, sounding delighted. He looked at John proudly.

"Uh..." John frowned as he looked again at the shoe he was holding, then put it down. "...that's it."

"That's it?" Sherlock repeated. John nodded and looked at him.

"How did I do?"

"Well, John; really well." Sherlock told him. John gave him a look of surprise and a smile poked at his lips from the praise.

"I mean, you missed almost everything of importance, but, um, you know..." Sherlock lifted his hand and slowly rotates his wrist to turn his palm up, his expression full of sarcasm. With a look of frustration and annoyance, John picked up the trainer and shoved it at him. Sherlock looked at it closely as he went into deduction mode.

"The owner loved these. Scrubbed them clean, whitened them where they got discoloured. Changed the laces three...no, four times."

John put his hands on the desk and lowered his head in despair.

"Even so, there are traces of his flaky skin where his fingers have come into contact with them, so he suffered from eczema. Shoes are well-worn, more so on the inside, which means the owner had weak arches. British-made, twenty years old."

"Twenty years?" John asked, straightening up.

"They're not retro, they're original." Sherlock showed John an image on his phone. It was of the shoes, confirming their suspected year of debut.

"Limited edition two blue stripes, nineteen eighty-nine."

"But there's still mud on them." John pointed out. "They look new."

Someone's kept them that way." he replied thoughtfully. "Quite a bit of mud caked on the soles. Analysis shows it's from Sussex, with London mud overlaying it."

"How do you know?"

Sherlock nodded over at the computer screen. "Pollen. Clear as a map reference to me." Two dots were flashing on a map of Britain, one around the borders of East and West Sussex and the other to the south-east of London.

"South of the river, too. So, the kid who owned these trainers came to London from Sussex twenty years ago and left them behind."

"So what happened to him?" John asked

"Something bad." Sherlock replied simply. He looked up at John. "He loved those shoes, remember. He'd never leave them filthy. Wouldn't leave them go unless he had to. So, a child with big feet gets..."

Sherlock trailed off, staring at the air in front of him. His features softened with understanding. "Oh..."

"What?" John looked across the lab, trying to see what Sherlock was gazing at.

"Carl Powers." he said softly.

"Sorry, who?"

"Carl Powers, John." He continued to stare into the distance, his lips parted slightly in thought.

"What is it?"

Sherlock swallowed and his posture relaxed as things clicked in his mind. John could see something dawn on his face and the detective nodded slightly

"It's where I began."


	13. Chapter 13

_okay so quick note! i apologize for the last two chapters, because i am aware that there was a lot of repetition. i've been having writer's block, and would've felt bad if i didn't churn out some type of update, and they turned out to be rubbish. so regardless, it was bad writing on my part and i'm sorry. i have my ideas planned out now, so i hope you all like the following chapters better. _

* * *

Later, Sherlock and John sat in the back of a taxi as Sherlock went on talking about Carl Powers.

"Nineteen eighty-nine, a young kid, champion swimmer, came up from Brighton for a school sports tournament; drowned in the pool. Tragic accident." He lifted up his phone to show John the front page of a newspaper article from after the incident.

"You wouldn't remember it. Why should you?"

"But you remember." John said. Sherlock nodded and put his hand over John's, who had been laying palm up.

"Yes."

"Something fishy about it?"

"Nobody thought so," Sherlock replied. "Nobody except me. I was only a kid myself. I read about it in the papers."

"Started young, didn't you?" John asked with a small grin and a squeeze of Sherlock's hand. The detective's mouth quirked up at one end.

"The boy, Carl Powers, had some kind of fit in the water, but by the time they got him out it was too late. But there was something wrong; something I couldn't get out of my head." Sherlock tone turned a bit distressed at the end and he interlaced his hand with John's.

"What was it?"

"His shoes."

"What about them?"

"They weren't there. I made a fuss. I tried to get the police interested, but nobody seemed to think it was important." Sherlock huffed as he recalled how no one had paid any attention to his suspicions. "He'd left all the rest of his clothes in his locker, but there was no sign of his shoes…" Sherlock leaned over and grabbed the bag containing the trainers. "Until now..."

He sighed and held John's hand a bit tighter. The army doctor could practically feel the stress radiating from Sherlock, and he wanted nothing more than to throw the man down on the couch and kiss him and just tell him to _breathe_. But, things of that manner didn't work well when Sherlock's was on a case, so John had to settle for leaning against Sherlock and placing his head on his shoulder while the detective stared out the window and thought.

* * *

John wondered a lot what it was like inside Sherlock's brain. He didn't commonly get to know what the man's though processes were, so when Sherlock took action, it was John who was left to figure out the motivation behind it. When he was on a case, John knew that his main objective was to solve it, to complete this broken up puzzle. It was when Sherlock was bored, that John really wondered. For it was during boredom that Sherlock would experiment, that he would shoot holes in the walls, and once, that he would disappear for 2 days with his phone switched off. He had asked Sherlock to explain what boredom felt like to him, and Sherlock had refused to tell. He had said that John wouldn't understand and that it didn't matter. But it _did_ matter.

Because at the moment, John was bored out of his mind and fretting over the case, and he knew it didn't compare to what Sherlock's mind was going through.

The detective had shut himself up in the kitchen and was sitting at the table with the trainers nearby, still in the bag, while looking through photographs and printouts of newspaper reports of Carl Powers' death from 1989. John had been pacing back and forth for a few minutes now, and he slid open one of the kitchen doors.

"Can I help?"

Sherlock didn't react to John, and his eyes stayed fixated on an article. John tried again.

"I want to help. There's only five hours left." John's phone suddenly sounded a text alert. He retrieved the phone from his pant's pocket and looked at the message.

**Any developments?**  
**Mycroft Holmes**

"It's your brother." John told Sherlock, frowning. "How does he know my number?

"Must be a root canal." Sherlock said quietly, still not looking up. John sighed and pocketed his phone, then came into the kitchen.

"Look, he did say 'national importance'." Sherlock snorted, but still paid no attention to John.

"How quaint."

"What is?"

"You are." John caught a smattering of affection throughout this statement and allowed himself to smile a bit. "Queen and country." Sherlock finished, and John's expression dropped into something more serious.

"You can't just ignore it." John told him sternly. Sherlock nodded.

"I'm not ignoring it. Putting my best man onto it right now."

"Right. Good." They both went silent, and John folded his arms, then nodded in satisfaction. A moment later, he looked at Sherlock in puzzlement.

"Wait, who's that?"

* * *

One persuading snog, a clothing change, and a short cab ride later, John was sitting alone in Mycroft's office. He'd put on nicer clothes, though Sherlock had insisted that John shouldn't care about what Mycroft thoughts on jumpers were. John of course ignored Sherlock, and promptly changed into a button up shirt, tie and jacket. Now, he shifted uncomfortably in the chair and looked at his watch. He'd been sitting here for nearly 15 minutes with only inner monologue and thoughts for company. He looked up when the door opened.

"John, how nice. I was hoping you wouldn't be long." Mycroft said, reading a report and not paying much attention to the man in front of him. John stood up politely as Mycroft walked to his desk, eyes still glued to the report.

"How can I help you?" he asked, walking straight past John and putting the report down on the desk. He imperiously waved a hand in John's direction to signify that he could sit down again.

"Um, well, I was wanting to... um, Sherlock sent me to collect more facts about the stolen plans, the missile plans."

"Did he?" Mycroft asked, looking over his shoulder and smiling at John.

"Yes." John replied, smiling nervously as Mycroft turned towards him and leaned back on the desk.

"He's investigating away!" John told him, with what the army doctor immediately thought was far too much chipperness. Mycroft put his hand to his mouth as if he were in pain, then lowered it as he smiled again.

He didn't believe a word of it.

"Um, I just wondered what else you can tell me about the dead man." John said quickly, hoping that perhaps he could get Mycroft to not see through all of his lie. The politician of course said nothing in regards to John's story, and made a noise of thought as he recalled details of the man.

"Uh, twenty-seven; a clerk at Vauxhall Cross...er, MI6. He was involved in the Bruce-Partington Programme in a minor capacity. Security checks A-OK; no known terrorist affiliations or sympathies..." he paused as he thought of additional tidbits that could be helpful. "Last seen by his fiancé at 10:30 last night."

"Right. He was found at Battersea, yes? So he got on the train."

"No."

"What?" John asked, confused.

"He had an Oyster card..." Mycroft cut off as he lifted a hand to his mouth again. John frowned as he realized that perhaps Sherlock was right about Mycroft having a root canal.

"...but it hadn't been used." Mycroft finished, grimacing in pain.

"Must have bought a ticket." John said. Mycroft shook his head and lowered his hand.

"There was no ticket on the body."

"Then...?"

"Then how did he end up with a bashed-in brain on the tracks at Battersea?" Mycroft sighed. "That is the question, the one I was rather hoping Sherlock would provide an answer to. How's he getting on again?" A sly smirk grew across Mycroft's face as John scrambled for words.

"He-he's fine, yes. Oh, and-and it is going...very well. It's, um, you know, he's completely focused on it." John grinned unconvincingly back at Mycroft. The elder Holmes nodded, the smirk remaining. His expression feel the next moment, and cascaded into a more serious, business-like one.

"Now John, I've been meaning to ask you..." Mycroft said, moving to take a seat at his desk. John shifted uncomfortably and titled his head slightly as a cue for Mycroft to continue.

"Correct me I'm wrong..." he began, and John held back an urge to snort. Mycroft being wrong? _Hardly_ a chance. Even now, John could see this sort of knowing satisfaction his features. "But Sherlock and you have gotten together, yes?"

John bristled a bit at his question. Of course Mycroft knew, he didn't miss a single thing about his brother's activities. But then why was he asking? What, did he think that Sherlock had forced John into this and merely wanted a confirmation of consent? John cleared his throat before answering.

"I do believe that is none of your concern, Mycroft. " the corner of Mycroft's mouth quirked up at this reply. He raised a brow and gave a John an amused look.

"Oh, but it is. And besides, it's not as if I don't already know the answer. You two look rather smitten, even on grainy CCTV cameras." John's face burned slightly at his comment and he stiffened a bit. Mycroft's expression faded back to somberness in the next moment and he seemed to sag against the desk.

"I'm rather worried for you, John." he admitted. John looked at him in puzzlement.

"What? Why?"

"Sherlock's heart isn't..." Mycroft paused, trying to find the correct words. "Well, for a time, many people thought he was incapable of affection. Everyone always saw him as this cold, untouchable being." Mycroft's frown deepened and his brows furrowed slightly. "They tried to get to him, you know."

"Who?"'John asked, slightly alarmed. He didn't like Mycroft's tone at all, and highly doubted Sherlock wanted his older brother to be the one retelling stories of this sort.

"Everyone. They all tried to get through to him, poking and prodding as if he were some..._freak_." Mycroft's jaw was hard set and he avoided John's eyes.

"You're the only one he's really let in, John. I haven't seen him like this since we were children. He just so...so..." Mycroft licked his lips and tried to find the correct words. John raised an eyebrow in question.

"He's _happy_, John." Mycroft finally said, a sigh following after. "And there's this sort of motivation behind his actions and he's thinking of consequences rather than just following the first thing that occurs." John felt a surge of pride rush through him as Mycroft spoke. Had he really made Sherlock opened up? All that he had seen change in the man was that he readily gave John more affection, and a bit more consideration. If anything, Sherlock was the one who had changed John. He'd taken this broken, useless discharged soldier with a wounded shoulder and a dodgy leg and and nothing left to go for and just breathed life back into him. He'd made things interesting, he'd made things better.

"I want you to watch out for yourself, John." Mycroft said suddenly, snapping John from his thoughts. He looked at the politician, puzzled.

"What do you mean?"

"I don't think Sherlock will truly be able to love someone. His heart is there to pump blood throughout his body and do nothing more. Do not allow him to break yours." Mycroft spoke swiftly and quietly, as if he wanted nothing more than to be rid of the words. John felt something like anger pool in his stomach and he frowned.

"I do believe you're mistaken." John kept his tone steady and clenched his hands. Mycroft raised a brow.

"I am merely concerned for your own well being. I fear that if you so happen to tell him that you do indeed love him, he may shut down. It could all go awry."

Suddenly, John found himself on his feet and very, very angry. His nostrils flared as he inhaled.

"Do _try_ and have some faith in your own brother, Mycroft." John said sharply. "For godsakes, you sound like...like..."

"Like everyone else?" Mycroft's tone was calm and collected and John absolutely hated it. "What if they're right John? What if our dear Sherlock will never truly reciprocate?"

"They're wrong." John said fiercely. He shook his head and pointed a finger at Mycroft. "And _you're_ wrong. Sherlock is normal, perfectly normal." John headed over to the door and looked back at Mycroft once more. "Maybe if you had all just tried a little harder, you would see what I see."

* * *

"Poison."

Sherlock stated it such a casualness that Mrs. Hudson had to look around to make sure his words weren't directed at her.

"What are you going on about?"

He slammed his hands down on the table and Mrs. Hudson cringed.

"Clostridium botulinum!" he exclaimed as the woman fled the kitchen. John's head poked into the kitchen from the living room and the rest of his body followed as he stepped inside.

"How's the case-"

John was quickly cut off as Sherlock grabbed his face and kissed him. John melted into the embrace, but it was gone the next moment.

"It's one of the deadliest poisons on the planet!" Sherlock said, his eyes wide. John stared at him blankly.

"Are you trying to say that you just poisoned me or-"

"Carl Powers, John!" Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes. He kissed John again then walked over to where he had hung up the shoelaces.

"Remember these?" he asked, gesturing at them. John nodded and Sherlock smiled a bit.

"The boy suffered from eczema. It'd be the easiest thing in the world to introduce the poison into his medication. Two hours later he comes up to London, the poison takes effect, paralyses the muscles and he drowns." Sherlock sounded like a kid on Christmas morning, and John assumed that was how he felt too.

"But wait," said John. "How come the autopsy didn't pick that up?"

"It's virtually undetectable." Sherlock replied. "Nobody would have been looking for it."

Sherlock walked around the table to where his laptop lay. The screen showed his own website, and a message box awaited him.

"**FOUND. Pair of trainers belonging to Carl Powers (1978-1989).**" he typed, his fingers hitting the keys quickly and sharply. Sherlock straightened up and pointed at the laces again.

"But there were still tiny traces of it left inside the trainers from where he put the cream on his feet." He leaned forward at the waist and typed the remaining part of his message.

"**Botulinum toxin still present. Apply 221b Baker St.**"

Sherlock hit send, then straightened again. He turned and looked at John, his eyes wild with the excitement of his new discovery.

"So how do we let the bomber know.." John began. Sherlock licked his lips and nodded.

"Get his attention..."

"Yeah..."

Sherlock lifted his arm and looked at his watch. "Stop the clock." he said. John sighed and began to loosen his tie.

"The killer kept the shoes all these years."

"Meaning..." Sherlock prompted.

"He's our bomber." John finished, making a confirming smile grow on Sherlock's face.

The pink phone rang suddenly, and Sherlock pounced on it. John could hear the woman sob in anguish as Sherlock connected the call.

_"Well done, you."_ she said. _"Come and get me."_

"Where are you?" Sherlock asked. "Tell us where you are."

The woman cried out an address, and Sherlock promised her that help was on the way. He ended the call and dialed Lestrade with his own phone, tapping his foot as the call went through. Lestrade sounded tired as Sherlock quickly relayed the address, but the DI managed to perk up at the new information. He thanked Sherlock, then promptly hung up. Sherlock lowered the phone slowly from his ear and looked at John.

"Well," Sherlock said, the tension leaking out of his shoulders. "I do believe a certain someone promised a reward earlier this morning."

John grinned as Sherlock walked back to him and wrapped his fingers around John's loosened tie. He pulled the shorter man in for a kiss, and John had to stand on his toes a bit.

"Can't reach?" Sherlock murmured into the embrace. John grabbed his coat lapels and yanked the detective down a few inches.

"Don't be an arse." he replied, moving his hands up to Sherlock's face. He chuckled, and they remained there for a minute or so. Sherlock was the one who pulled away, and John looked at him with a raised brow.

"I do believe someone wanted a lie in...?" he said, and John laughed. They left the kitchen and went straight to the bedroom. Sherlock closed the door as John began to peel off his coat. The taller man leaned against the door, his arms crossed over his chest and a smirk on his face. John looked over at him.

"Hey," John began. He looked around the floor and found Sherlock's discarded pajamas from the morning. He picked them up and threw them at his boyfriend. "Don't just stand there. Get changed." John's grin grew a bit as he went back to unbuttoning his shirt. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Sherlock walking towards him, his nimble fingers undoing his own buttons. The expensive purple shirt fluttered to the ground and he held the grey t shirt lazily in his hands. Sherlock went to stand behind John as he pulled it on.

"Hello..." he said, wrapping his arms around John's now bare shoulders. Sherlock's pants were soft against John's skin as they brushed him. John tilted his head back and looked up at Sherlock.

"I've missed you..." he replied softly, his grin fading a bit. Sherlock held him a bit tighter and ducked his head to press a kiss to John's hair.

"Did you miss me?" John asked quietly. Sherlock looked surprised at John's question, then nodded slightly. He propped his chin up on John's head.

"Of course..." his voice was just above a whisper, but John could feel the sincerity behind it. He stared at the mirror in front of them, and smiled a little bit.

"We're quite odd, aren't we?" John mused. Sherlock was over 7 inches taller than he was, and the height difference was evident as they stood there.

"How so?"

"Well, look at us." John told him. "There's you, this gorgeous, tall, barking mad detective and then there's me," John gestured at himself in the mirror.

"I'm like a short potato that wears knitwear."

"I'll have you know that I enjoy both potatoes and knitwear."

John smiled a little bit and tipped his head back against Sherlock. The man's pale eyes seemed to be able to read his every thought, every mannerism and every breath just to make a deduction. He didn't say anything though, only held John a tad closer. They stayed like that a minute, just enjoying each other's presences until Sherlock spoke again.

"Mycroft said something to you. It wasn't about the case." John let out a little sigh and nodded. Sherlock grimaced and pulled away from him. He walked over to their bed and plopped himself down in it.

"Let's go then. Come on." Sherlock patted the space next to him as John finished undressing and threw on a pair of pajama pants. Sherlock unbuttoned and slid off his own trousers then shimmied into his pants. He scurried under the duvet as John walked to the bed to join him. It was still fairly early compared to their typical curfews, but John figured they deserved some down time. Sherlock lay on his back, eyes following John as he climbed into the bed and laid next to him. John put his head down on Sherlock's chest and reached his right hand out to grasp Sherlock's left.

"You were right about Mycroft." John told him. Sherlock nodded.

"I know. You hold your shoulders stiffly and your limp bothers you a tad whenever you're thinking about something you don't like." Sherlock looked at John. "What did he say?"

"He wanted me to watch out for myself." John paused and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Watch out from you."

John's answer didn't seem to phase Sherlock, for his only nodded and sighed. "I was expecting that he would tell you such a thing. I'n rather surprised he didn't say it at the very beginning."

"Sherlock, he said you were incapable of love!" John lifted his head to look at the detective. The taller man had an eyebrow raised, as if he were expecting something more.

"You said he was wrong."

"Of course I did." John's hand moved from Sherlock's to gently trace the man's cheekbone. "Wasn't that the correct answer?" Sherlock no longer looked at John, his eyes now seemingly inspecting an invisible loose thread on the duvet.

"Sherlock-"

"He could be right, John. I've never felt for another person like this. I could ruin you."

"I'll take that chance." Sherlock looked back at John, his brows raised in surprise. John's expression was hard and set. "You're worth it, Sherlock. If I get my heart broken, hell, at least I had a good time doing it." John wiggled up closer to Sherlock's face to kiss him. The taller man seemed to almost melt into the gesture and he made a soft noise in the back of his throat. John pulled away and laid his head down so that he could still look at Sherlock.

"What does it feel like when you think?"

"John..." Sherlock said, his voice sounding a bit distressed. "Like I said before, there's no need in knowing. You won't understand."

"I want to understand, Sherlock." John reached out for his boyfriend's hand again. "Just humor me. If I seriously can't understand, you don't have to tell me anymore. I won't ask again." John raised an eyebrow as he waited for Sherlock to give an answer. The detective sighed and nodded a little.

"Promise me that you won't..." Sherlock bit the inside of his cheek before continuing. "Promise me that you won't laugh or anything."

"Of course I won't laugh. I promise." John said firmly, squeezing Sherlock's hand. He smiled a tad at John.

"Well, I suppose it depends on what I am thinking about."

"What's it like when you're at a crime scene?"

Sherlock paused as he gathered his words. His eyes flickered upwards quickly as he recalled thoughts from earlier.

"It's similar to screaming, I suppose. That, and whirring machines. The screaming points out all these little details and they swim around in my vision and subconscious and I have to file them quickly, otherwise they'll all get jumbled and things will fall apart and it's all very hectic." Sherlock sighed and looked at John again. His pale eyes searched for some kind of reaction, some kind of negative emotion. Instead, John only stared at him in wonderment.

"Why did you still chose to dedicate your life to it?" he asked softly. Sherlock shrugged.

"Because when I finally solve the case, John, everything goes silent. It's like a great white burst, and then everything makes sense and the screaming just stops. It's so quiet, that I can hear my own pulse." Sherlock let out a small breath as he brought forward the feeling from earlier when he had solved the bomber's puzzle. John nodded slightly against him and was quiet for a moment.

"What's it like when you think about me?"

"Do you really want to know?" Sherlock replied, peering down at him. John smiled slightly and nodded. The detective adverted his stare and his face reddened a tinge.

"It's rather quiet most of the time. My mind just fills up with all these images and facts and past events and...predictions." Sherlock's flush deepened a bit. "And I just hear you, John. Sometimes you're yelling at me, or you're laughing or telling me to pick up milk," John chuckled softly and smiled a bit more.

"I think of you when I'm stressed." Sherlock's voice was just above a whisper, as though he were telling a secret that no one was ever supposed to know. John figured that it might as well be, since Sherlock wasn't looking at him, his elegant features projecting embarrassment. John lightly touched his cheek and gently turned Sherlock's face towards him. The shorter man pressed a kiss to his lips and smiled.

"What's it like when I kiss you?" he murmured, keeping their mouths only centimeters apart. Sherlock let out a small breath, the air warm against John's skin.

"Everything goes silent, and all I can hear is your heartbeat." John found himself grinning widely and completely overwhelmed by feelings of affection and gratefulness and just utter love for the man who lay with him. He kissed Sherlock again, slower this time and only letting it be a mere brush of lips. Sherlock smiled at John, his expression turning into a borderline grin where his eyes crinkled slightly and his face lit up.

"It's absolutely wonderful, John."

* * *

Sherlock didn't tell John about what he really thought of this particular crime. He never said how he knew he was the main target, how the bomber was trying to get to him. He didn't say how he feared for John's safety, and how he was absolutely petrified of the man being taken hostage and put in a vest rigged with explosives and having to be a piece in this sick, twisted game. He didn't express the worrying sensation that John would somehow be dragged into all of this, and his death would be on Sherlock's behalf. And when he woke up at 3:07 in the morning, the feeling of glass and rock and blood and charred flesh still covering him from his nightmare, he didn't dare risk waking John. Sherlock wiped away some of the sweat on his forehead, then willed himself to believe that the tears in his eyes were sweat as well, and settled back into the bed. He felt raw and clammy and horrified and absolutely ripped apart. Sherlock steadied his breathing and pulled John's sleeping form closer, inhaling his comforting scent. The detective kissed the top of his head countless times, trying to remind himself that John was_ here_, John was _safe_, John was going to _stay safe_ and that_ everything was fine_. They were together, Sherlock reminded himself, and spent the next 4 hours, 28 minutes, and 13 seconds thinking of just how wonderful that was.


	14. Chapter 14

John found that he was growing more and more unnerved by these cases, his stomach twisting into knots whenever he thought of the victims who were forced to read from papers while bombs covered their bodies. He and Sherlock had gone to Lestrade's office the next morning and talked briefly about the woman that had been the first victim.

"She lives in Cornwall. Two men broke in wearing masks, forced her to drive to the car park and decked her out in enough explosives to take down a her to phone you. She had to read out from this pager."

John squashed down a sick feeling that bubbled up in his throat as they entered a new crime scene. Sherlock had received another signal, another picture, and another call, on which John had caught the voice of a petrified, crying man. Lestrade had been able to locate the car in the photo and they rushed to the site in which it was. Forensic officers were working on the car as Lestrade led Sherlock towards it, Sally and John walking behind them.

"The car was hired yesterday morning by an Ian Monkford." Lestrade told him, consulting some notes. "Banker of some kind; City boy. Paid in cash."

While Greg and Sherlock inspected the car and spoke about a few more details, Sally turned to John.

"You're still hanging round him." she stated, frowning. John nodded.

"Well, yeah."

"Opposites attract, I suppose." her words were full of venom, but they were nothing more than some attempt at a taunt. John found himself smiling and nodding.

"I agree completely." John replied, flashing her a tight smile before going to stand beside Sherlock. The detective was gesturing at the blood on the seats and frowning. He reached into the glove box and rifled through it.

"No body." John caught Sherlock saying as he listened in on their conversation. Lestrade nodded.

"Not yet." he sighed. Sherlock pulled himself from the car and stashed something in his pocket quickly. He turned back to Lestrade.

"Get a sample sent to the lab." he demanded, turning and walking away from the vehicle. Lestrade nodded again and sent a pointed look at Donovan, who gave him a look of disbelief. Lestrade furrowed his brows a bit and gave her a look again, causing the woman to sigh and stomp off. John followed Sherlock over to where a crying woman was, trailing behind a bit.

"Mrs. Monkford?" Sherlock said. She turned and looked at him tearfully.

"I'm sorry, but I've already spoken with two policemen..." she said, glancing from Sherlock to John.

"No, we're not from the police. We're..." Sherlock suddenly stuck out his hand and John looked at him in confusion.

"Sherlock Holmes." he told her, his voice tremulous and choked. "Very old friend of your husband's. We, um...we grew up together." he looked down as of fighting back tears and John attempted to maintain a neutral face for the sake of going with Sherlock's apparent story. What was he trying to accomplish?

"I'm sorry, who?" she asked. "I don't think he ever mentioned you." John looked down at his feet as Sherlock continued on his story, not wanting to compromise his motive. Of course, Sherlock mucked it up himself within the next minute, and John let out a little sigh.

"Really strange that he hired a car." Sherlock said. "Why would he do that? It's a bit suspicious, isn't it?"

"No, it isn't." she retorted, tone becoming the slightest bit frantic. "He forgot to renew the tax on the car, that's all."

"Oh, well, that was Ian!" Sherlock drawled tearfully. "That was Ian all over!"

"No it wasn't." she said incredulously. At that, Sherlock's persona dropped instantly and he stared at her intensely.

"Wasn't it? Interesting." The detective turned on his heel and promptly walked away, heading to the police tape with John next to him. She glared at him and began to ask a female officer about something, presumably Sherlock and who he was.

"Why did you lie to her?" John asked as they walked. Sherlock peeled off one glove to wile the tears from under his eyes.

"People don't like telling you things, but they love to contradict you. Past tense, did you notice?"

"Sorry, what?"

"I referred to her husband in the past tense." Sherlock told him with a little joined in. Bit premature, they've only just found the car."

"You think she murdered her husband?" John asked, only earning a scoff in return.

"Definitely not. That's not a mistake a murderer would make."

They walked past Donovan and she turned and called to John.

"Try a hobby! Like fishing!" John stopped and let out an exasperated noise. He grabbed Sherlock's upper arm suddenly and the detective wheeled around in question. John grabbed his face and kissed him, making sure to hold the embrace long enough so that Sally understood just how _much_ opposites attracted. He pulled away from a dazed and blindsided Sherlock, grabbed the man's hand, and sent one last look at Donovan before trudging off with Sherlock in tow.

"Where now?" John prompted. Sherlock was quiet for a moment as he recollected himself. His hand tightened around John's as they continued away from the scene.

"Janus Cars." His free hand reached into his coat pocket to pull out a business card and give it to John.

"Nicked it from the glove box." Sherlock gave John a clever, and slightly devious smirk, which made the shorter man laugh.

"So, am I allowed to kiss you at crime scenes from now on?"

"I suppose. I must admit, being public is much more fun." Sherlock grinned as John and squeezed his hand. John pressed a bit closer to Sherlock, and they walked together, warding off the brisk November chill.

* * *

Their trip to the car dealership was a short one, yet Sherlock was able to deduce a great deal of information from it. John didn't hear any of his findings until they were back at Scotland Yard, this time in the car pound. He, Sherlock and Lestrade were standing around Monkford's car, with Sherlock piercing glare inspecting the interior. When asked how much blood covered the seats, Lestrade gave an estimate.

"Um, close to a pint?"

"No, no." Sherlock replied. "Exactly a pint. The blood is definitely his, but it's been frozen. He must of gave it some time ago, then they just spread it on the seat."

"Who did?" Lestrade questioned, crossing his arms. Sherlock's eyes flickered over to John.

"Janus Cars. The clue is in the name."

"The god with two faces." John said, smiling slightly at Sherlock. He had come back into the lab at Bart's to see Sherlock's mouth in a perpetual smirk and holding his phone out, asking John to research the name.

"Exactly." Sherlock stood up straight and dropped his hand close to John's.

"They provide a very special service." he said, looking at Lestrade. "If you've got any kind of a problem; money troubles, bad marriage, whatever, Janus Cars will help you disappear. Ian Monkford was up to his eyes in some kind of trouble; probably financial." Sherlock closed the car door and brushed his fingers against the back of John's hand.

"So where's he now?"

"Columbia."

"What?!" Lestrade exclaimed. Sherlock raised a bemused eyebrow, then rattled off information. Ewert had Columbian tender in his wallet, and his tan line was stark against the much paler, untanned skin. Along with that, his arm was irritated, as Sherlock pointed out that he kept scratching at it. But when Sherlock revealed that Mrs. Monkford was in on the heist as well, John was surprised.

"While her husband adjusted to his new life in Columbia, she was busy splitting the money with Mr. Ewert." Sherlock turned his attention to Lestrade, who's expression was one of awe and amazement.

"Now go and arrest them, Inspector. That's what you do best." The detective turned to John and nudged him.

"We need to let our friendly bomber know that the case is solved." He said, turning and leading John away. Lestrade watched them, still reeling at all the information that he has just been given. Sherlock had taken hold of John's hand and clenched his empty fist triumphantly as they walked.

"I am on fire!"

Now, they sat at the living room table as Sherlock typed a new message into his website. They both wore their coats as the heating was still dodgy, which left them to making do with space heaters, heavy blankets and each other's bodies.

**"Congratulations to Ian Monkford on his relocation to Columbia."** The words filled the white text box quickly and Sherlock hit send. They waited only a few seconds before the pink phone began to ring. John and Sherlock exchanged looks, then the detective grabbed the device. He connected the call and put it on speaker. The hostage's tremulous, petrified voice filled the room.

"He says you can come and fetch me. Help. Help me, please."

"Where are you?" The man broke down as he told Sherlock, and even John had trouble making out his words. But, Sherlock managed, and one swift text to Lestrade later, he recover confirmation that they had eyes on the hostage, and that the bombs had been deactivated. Sherlock let out a small sigh and grinned tiredly at John. The doctor smiled back and leaned in for another kiss.

* * *

The following morning, John awoke harshly, his eyes groggily opening. Sherlock had bounded into the room, impeccably dressed as always; and threw open the normally drawn curtains with a flourish of expensive fabric and light dust. The sharp beams of early sunlight that filled the room awoke John, though he didn't much more than stir a bit and groan. Sherlock hurried over to him and shook his right shoulder vigorously.

"Get up, John! Let's go!"

Begrudgingly, John had complied and still half asleep, dressed, then put on his coat as Sherlock swept him put of the flat. They ended up going to a small café, to which the owner owed Sherlock a favor of some sort. The steam from tea rose up in a delicious swell of warmth as John ate his first real meal for the first time in nearly 2 days. The pink phone sat idly on the table, and Sherlock drummed his fingers impatiently.

"Feeling better?" he suddenly asked.

"Mmm," John replied as he swallowed. "You realize we're hardly stopped for breath since this thing started."

He ate another forkful, then paused.

"Has it occured to you-"

"Probably."

"No," John sighed. "Has it occurred to you that the bomber's playing a game with you? The envelope; breaking into the other flat; the dead kid's shoes, it's all meant for you."

Sherlock smiled slightly. "Yes, I know."

"Is it him, then? Moriarty?"

"Perhaps."

The phone loudly beeped a message alert, catching both of their attention. Sherlock switched it on and two short Greenwich pips, followed by a longer tone, sounded. A picture of a middle aged, smiling woman popped up and Sherlock frowned.

"That could be anybody..." his voice sounded annoyed and frustrated. John smiled slightly.

"Well, it could be. Lucky for you, I've been more than a little unemployed."

"What do you mean?"

"Lucky for you," John said again. "Mrs Hudson and I watch far too much telly." He got up and switched on the television that was nestled up high on the wall, and looked back at Sherlock as the news program identified the woman. Connie Prince, popular TV personality, found dead at 54 by her brother in their shared home in Hampstead. The phone rang suddenly and Sherlock pounced on it, connecting the call and listening. John couldn't hear what was the hostage was saying, and the way Sherlock's face changed from anticipation, to surprise and then to what John knew was unmistakably anger, he wasn't able to draw anything out of it.

"Why are you doing this?" Sherlock's voice was soft as he asked his question. John went back to the table and sat down, sharing a glance with his boyfriend as the hostage replied.

"I...like to...watch you..." a sob crackled through the phone speaker and John realized in horror that it was an old woman. "...dance."

The call ended, leaving Sherlock's face in a tight grimace as he set down the phone.

They went to St. Bart's after that, and examined Connie Prince's body. Almost immediately Sherlock realized that there was something wrong with her death, and with a clue or two from him, John put the pieces together. The cut had been made after she died, for it was very clean and fresh. However, the bacteria had entered another way. Sherlock turned to John.

"You want to help?"

"Of course."

John now found himself at Connie Prince's house, and was currently being led into the living room by a man who introduced himself as Raoul. Kenny Prince was ahead of them, already halfway across the room by the time John reached the doorway. Kenny put his arm up on the mantelpiece of the fire and sighed.

"We're devastated." he said as John uncomfortably sat down on the couch. The cat perched next to him was a tad unnerving, and John didn't particularly want to to have to touch the thing.

Unfortunately, as his conversation with Kenny continued, the cat repeatedly climbed into John's lap, meowing and purring when John had no choice but to let it stay. Granted, it was a soft feeling cat, much to John's surprise as he had always expected something different from a cat of this...breed? Spawn? Either way, John wanted it off of him. And preferably across the ocean.

However, John found something odd as he went to scratch his nose. It was quick at first, as he tried to scoot away from Kenny on the couch, the man now sitting much too close in proximity. The faint, yet unmistakable odor of disinfectant met his nose as he rubbed at its side. He nonchalantly did it again, just to be absolutely sure. Kenny didn't seem to notice, and only leaned a bit closer.

"It's awfully lonely without someone here..."

"Ah!" John acted as if his phone had just vibrated. He carefully drew out the device, making sure Kenny couldn't see the unlit screen. "Sorry, I have to take this. Just a minute." John excused himself from the living room and hurriedly dialed Sherlock's number.

Back in 221B, Lestrade and Sherlock were standing in front of the large display Sherlock had put together. His phone suddenly rang, and Lestrade jumped a bit beside him. Sherlock fished the phone from his pocket and gave the name on the screen a fleeting glance before answering.

"John." The tension in Lestrade's shoulders relaxed instantly, and he turned back to the wall display, seemingly content with not paying any attention to their discussion.

"Hi." John replied habitually. "Look, get over here quickly. I think I'm onto something. You'll need to pick up some stuff first. You got a pen?"

"I'll remember."

"Okay, good. See you soon." The call ended and Sherlock lowered the phone feeling a bit empty. Though he wouldn't admit it, sentiment had most definitely set in on him, and he found that even being away from John for more than an hour made him miss the army doctor greatly. Sherlock pushed those thoughts aside and paused momentarily before hurrying off to his bedroom. Sherlock yanked open the closets and after a minute of rifling, found what he needed. He swept out of the room with a flutter of coattails and said goodbye to Lestrade.

"Wait!" Greg called, hurrying to the doorway and making Sherlock pause on the stairs. "Where are you going?"

"John needed some assistance. I shall be back later."

"What do you expect me to do?" he exclaimed. Though he had known Sherlock for more than 6 years now, he still wasn't completely comfortable being alone in his current living arrangement. Sherlock shrugged and began to descend.

"Have a cuppa with Mrs. Hudson!" he replied easily. "Perhaps she can teach you something about colors!"

The front door opened and swung shut, and Lestrade was left at the doorway pondering whether or not Sherlock had just insulted him and his daily color palette.

* * *

When the door of the Prince house opened and closed, then John heard a low murmur that was unmistakably Holmes, he let out a sigh of relief.

"That'll be him."

"What?" Kenny looked at him in confusion. John gave him a small smile as Sherlock was led into the room by Raoul. He was certainly no idiot, and Kenny's flirting and advances were painfully apparent. John had been fretting that he might not even make it out of here with the older man's number and planned date at a posh restaurant. So now, he gave a silent prayer of gratitude as Sherlock came down into the room and greeted Kenny. They spoke very casually, yet John could see Kenny trying to look past Sherlock's shoulders and over to him. John was perplexed by Kenny's apparent taste in men, seeing as how Sherlock looked like some type of model, and John himself was just another generic face. He carelessly threw aside these thoughts and rejoined the conversation.

"So sorry to hear about..."

"Yes, yes, very kind."

"Shall we, er..." John sent a pointed look to Sherlock, urging him to help him out. The detective walked over to sofa and began to rummage in his bag, not looking at John until Kenny had turned to the mirror.

"You were right." John told him quietly. "The bacteria got into her another way."

"Oh yes?"

"Yes."

What followed was a bit like a blur, with everything happening quickly and not leaving much of a lasting impression when John would think back about it. John had attempted to seize the cat, but it was picked up by Kenny first. He and Sherlock exchanged looks, then pounced on this chance. Sherlock lifted his flashgun and shot it right in front of Kenny's face, making the man close his eyes. While he protested, John reached out and rubbed his fingers over one of the cat's front paws. Sherlock kept firing and John took a whiff of his fingers, then was set in his conclusion.

"Alright, I think we have what we need. Excuse us." John snatched the case from the couch and beckoned for Sherlock to quickly follow. Saying something about deadlines, Sherlock and John left Kenny confused and slightly ticked in the living room. They were out of the house in record time and John couldn't help the grin that grew on his face. He chuckled and Sherlock glanced at him. He maintained the frown for a second longer before breaking into a smile at the sight of John.

"You think it was the cat." Sherlock shook his head a little. "It wasn't the cat."

"Yeah, it is. It must be!" he replied. "It's how they got the tetanus into her system. The thing's paws stink of disinfectant." John clenched his fist happily. God, he felt so delighted and elated, it was borderline indecent. Was this how Sherlock felt whenever he solved a case? If so, John was going to have to do this far more often.

"It's a rather lovely idea."

"He coated it onto the paws of her cat. It's a new pet; bound to be a bit jumpy around her. A scratch is almost inevitable. She wouldn't have-"

"I thought of it the minute I saw the scratches on her arm," Sherlock interrupted. " But it's too random and too clever for the brother." John shook his head and chuckled, ignoring what Sherlock had said.

"He murdered his sister for her money."

"Did he?"

"Didn't he?" John replied, looking back at Sherlock. The detective shook his head and paused in thought.

"It was revenge."

"Revenge? Who wanted revenge?"

"Raoul, the houseboy." he said. "Kenny Prince was the butt of his sister's jokes, week in, week out, a virtual bullying campaign. Finally he had enough; fell out with her badly. It's all on the website. She threatened to disinherit Kenny. Raoul had grown accustomed to a certain lifestyle, so-"

"No, wait, wait." John stopped and shook his head. "Wait a second. What about the disinfectant, then, on the cat's claws?"

"Raoul keeps a very clean house. You came through the kitchen door, saw the state of that floor, scrubbed to within an inch of its life." Sherlock had stopped and suddenly leaned forward, ducking his head down and sniffing John. His nose brushed against John's neck and a warm puff of air sent a shiver down the shorter man's spine. "You smell of disinfectant now. I'll have to fix that later." Sherlock straightened up and looked over towards the main road while John pulled his jacket up to smell it.

"The cat may not come into it, but Raoul's internet records do. Hope we can get a cab from here." He walked off and John sighed in disappointment and exasperation.

His solved cases: Zero.

Sherlock's solved cases: _Way_ too bloody many.

* * *

_guess what fan favorite, batshit crazy consulting criminal is going to show up next chapter _


	15. Chapter 15

He had been in life threatening situations many times. Once as a teen when after a particularly exuberant party in which he drank, then tried to drive home; a fairly alarming number of times in Afghanistan; and at the moment, 13 times just from solving cases with Sherlock. He hadn't felt afraid during any of those times, whether it was from being too hammered to care, knowing that he had fought for his country, or being able to help take down some type of criminal; it was all fine.

But now, John didn't feel that way. No, he just felt empty and alone and everything that he had done, that he hadn't done was crashing down and weighing heavily on him.

John let out a shaky breath and clenched, then relaxed his hands.

God, no. He was absolutely petrified of dying right now. He allowed his eyes to sink down a bit and gaze at the green parka, then down to the wires and explosives. John's knees wobbled and he found it hard to breathe. God, how had he gotten himself into this?

* * *

Sherlock had solved the case of Connie Prince's death, slamming down a file and telling Lestrade the true cause. Raoul was her murderer, driven by the fear of losing his newly acquired, posh lifestyle. He had solved the puzzle, he had won against the bomber.

They couldn't save the old woman.

In her fear and horror, she had begun to describe the bomber. Sherlock had pleaded, he had demanded for her not to continue. But she did, finishing to say that the bomber's voice was soft. The shot rang clear int the phone right before it went dead, and John could clearly see the defeat and anger and remorse as Sherlock realized what had happened. His eyes fell to the ground and it dawned on John and Lestrade just what the old woman's fate had been. He and John had gone back to the flat after that, and Sherlock didn't say anything more about the case. John didn't mention it, didn't even acknowledge that they had been on a case, and sat with Sherlock on the couch as the telly flashed with the current program. Sherlock had his head down in John's lap, and John carded his fingers soothingly through the curls.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Dinner?" John asked, not sure what the appropriate question really would be. Sherlock seemed put off, and very shut away at the moment and John didn't like it at all. The detective sighed a bit.

"No. You're hungry though." he sat up and John retracted his hand slowly. Sherlock turned to look at him with a nod towards the kitchen. "Go on."

John sighed and stood up, stretching his legs as he did. He turned to look at Sherlock, who had flopped back down onto the couch. John crouched down so that his face was just a bit above Sherlock's. He ducked his head and kissed the detective, gently squeezing his shoulder. John stood up and deflated a bit to see no change in his boyfriend's frowning, somber face. He sighed again and went off into the kitchen to see if there was anything edible. Sherlock listened to John's footsteps, steady thumps that went against the stream of noise from the telly. Sherlock faded out from the flat, disappearing into his Mind Palace. While technically, it was just an imageless way of accessing memories and information, Sherlock could visualize the exact layout. It took the form of his childhood home, a large, spacious estate _(John would've preferred the word "mansion")_ with many rooms that were perfectly suited for each little category he had. Sherlock walked down the hallway of the first floor, reading each door name.

_"Preferred foods, idiots in Lestrade's division, all types of tea currently in the flat..." Sherlock grimaced. No, it wouldn't be on the first floor. Obviously the second. _

_He walked a bit further until he came to a grand stair case, with a cherry oak banter and a luxurious carpeting over the steps. Sherlock climbed it, his fingers gliding lightly over the wood. He turned to the left and 5 doors down, came to a room bearing the title "Unnamed Bomber Cases." They were very intriguing cases, very worthy of it's own room. Sherlock might even have given them it's own wing if not for the bomber's current bout of repetition._

_Repetition didn't deserve entire wings._

_Sherlock pushed open the door and found himself looking into a study type room, with files spread out over cabinets and notebooks crammed into shelves. Sherlock strolled over to the one closest to the door, and ran his fingers over a stack of papers. They felt warm, as if just printed before being piled together. Sherlock grabbed them and flipped through them quickly before returning to the first page. They appeared as if typed in his preferred computer font, Baskerville. Much better than that horrid Times New Roman font that John used. The pages had notes on them, quick little bullet points followed by a stream of words._

_•Called at exactly 9:27:41 on November 26th_  
_•John had showed me a program on Connie Prince, dead at 54 from fatal botox injections administered by Raoul Santos, houseboy for 4 years, 6 months, 23 days and 10 seconds._  
_•People are dreadfully boring when given fame, then threatened._

_His eyes scanned through the pages, each letter or each word seeming to jump off the page and pronounce itself in every language and symbol he knew. He reached the end, and read the last page of bullet points._

_•Told Lestrade, he was a bit doubtful. Foolish as always_  
_•Brought John and I into his office, Donovan scowled at me as we walked back and turned to Anderson. They're back at it_  
_•John was angry at me and stopped us on the way in_  
_•He's upset that I didn't tell him or Lestrade sooner. I was simply gaining an advantage of the bomber, he needn't be put off by my methods of doing so_  
_•Received the last call at 8:27:41_  
_•Bomber appears to like being on time. Must be why explosives are his preferred method_  
_•John and Lestrade wouldn't have appreciated my bomb humor, kept it to myself_  
_•The old woman is crying still, but she's asking for help_  
_•She begins to describe the bomber and I'm asking her not to, moronically continues on_  
_•States that he sounded soft, and the gun goes off_  
_•Gun is a sniper rifle, brand and caliber unknown, need more information_  
_•Phone goes dead, I realize she's been detonated, as John and Lestrade do as well. John placed his hands on my shoulders as he tries to comfort himself at the outcome._  
_•He is also trying to comfort me_  
_•Memories of her, always her and more vivid, she's-_

_Sherlock stops reading and slams the papers down onto the table. No, no, he mustn't think of her. Sentiment will not assist him any._

_Sherlock paces around, putting things together and replacing it all. Bomber is a man, soft voice. Soft could mean soothing, or perhaps just a quiet tone. He doesn't like being in the firing line, no, that is his worst fear in this. Has a sniper with him, refuses to get his own hands dirty. Was not in the building, spoke to the woman over earpiece._

_Sherlock growled in distaste and ruffled his hair. What does it all mean? Yes, it's meant for him, but why? What has he got that the bomber needs; that he wants? Sherlock slammed his fists down onto the tabletop and closed his eyes. Then, delicately, the door opened and he suddenly walking again. Up a floor, up another, going all the way to the 4th and final level._

_Home._

_Home is calling to him, and the door opens, and Sherlock can smell chicken noodle soup and Mrs. Hudson's perfume and hear the telly, can hear Mrs. Hudson, can hear John._

The rooms fade away and Sherlock finds himself back at the flat. John thanks Mrs. Hudson and she brushes off the gratitude with a polite, cheerful response.

"Want some? It's chicken noodle." John called from the kitchen. While it did smell heavenly, Sherlock was feeling plenty sustained from the bite he had eaten of John's eggs that morning.

"No." Sherlock responds, pulling himself up from the couch cushions and looked over into the kitchen. John had changed when they got back to the flat, pulling on the warmest shirts and jumpers he could find. Sherlock had brought out his red dressing gown and put it around John's shoulders, through the thought of wearing such an undoubtedly expensive piece of clothing made him seize up a bit. Sherlock dismissed his fear of ruining the thing, stating that he had another. John had sighed and pulled it on, and almost immediately began to marvel of the texture of the fabric against his skin. Now, he walked back into the living room, carrying a bowl of soup that looked deliciously warm. The red dressing gown dragged slightly on the floor, its hem being 3 inches more than John's stature. John gingerly sat down on the couch, taking extra care not to spill any soup. Sherlock lowered his head onto John's shoulder, making sure his movements didn't jostle the man at all. He listened to the sounds of John eating; a slight slurping noise at the end, little puffs of air as he breathed out his nose. John took the spoon and turned to Sherlock.

"Open."

"Not hungry."

"Open your bloody mouth. Stop being a pesky git." Sherlock begrudgingly complied, only quirking a tiny smile when John smiled in satisfaction. The soup was delicious, same as always, and the spices and herbs came together wonderfully with the broth, noodles and chicken. John pulled the spoon away and Sherlock swallowed the bite. The army doctor went to get another spoonful for Sherlock, but the detective shook his head.

"Oh hop off it." John told him. "Your cheekbones look like they're going to rip through your skin. Eat the damn soup."

Not feeling a single ounce of embarrassment. Sherlock allowed himself to be given spoonfuls of soup, only compiling because he knew that John was growing a bit wary of his weight. They finished the bowl together and settled against one another for another program. When it was over, John sighed and stretched.

"Bed?" he asked, looking at Sherlock. The detective nodded.

"I'll be there shortly. I'm in need of a shower."

"So am I. You use all the hot water, so I'll go first.

"No."

"Yes."

"Not if you can't beat me to it."

They were both scrambling over each other, nothing but a flurry of limbs and desperation at they tried to get to the bathroom first. John reached it first and closed the door sharply. Sherlock stood there for a second, then chuckled a bit as he walked into his room and opened the adjacent door that John hadn't locked. The man had been taking off his second jumper when Sherlock quirked an eyebrow as he opened the door.

"Dammit." John said with a grin as Sherlock shut the door behind him and followed in suit with undressing. Sherlock was the first one in the shower, turning the water on and sighing at the hot stream. John stepped in after him and nudged the detective to the side.

"Move it, I need the shampoo."

"Oh, this?" Sherlock lifted the bottle and poured some into his hand before applying it to his own hair. He still held the bottle high, smirking at John.

"Oh, you are such an unbelievable _arse_."

"Hm, really? Last I checked, you were telling me that rather I _have_ one."

"You do. Now give me the god damn bottle."

They stayed in the shower until the temperature began to hit the cooler side of the warmth spectrum, to which John then turned off the water. He was out first, grabbing a towel and wrapping it around his hips. Sherlock still stood in the bathtub, seemingly admiring John.

"Like something you see?"

"Mmm, very much."

"Then dry off and maybe you can sleep next to it." John took another towel and wound it up, snapping it so the end hit Sherlock's pale thigh. The detective made a scandalized noise, squawking in protest at it. He snatched the towel away from a now grinning John and wrapped it around his own hips. He followed John out back into the bedroom and shivered at the cooler temperature. They dried off a bit, then changed into pajamas.

"John."

"Hm?" Sherlock had draped his towel over his head and he was sitting on the edge of the bed, peering at John from under the edge of it.

"Hair." Sherlock huffed. John sighed as he pulled on a pair of pants, then walked over to the bed.

"Be still."

"It's cold, John."

"Hold still and you won't be!" John put his hands on either side of Sherlock's head and rubbed vigorously at the damn curls.

"Careful!" Sherlock groaned, crossing his arms. John snorted and rubbed a few more times before pulling the towel away. Sherlock's hair stuck up in odd directions and his pale irises glared at John.

"All dry." John smirked as he said it, then suddenly arms were around his waist and heaving him up onto the bed. John laughed as he and Sherlock tumbled down into the blankets, tangled in one another.

"What's all this? Getting clingy?" John teased as he pecked Sherlock on the lips. The detective snorted, but grew quiet for a moment in thought.

"I'm sorry."

"Hm? For what?"

"This." Sherlock gestured around the room at nothing. "Well not this this. I mean the case. I'm sorry for ignoring you I suppose." Sherlock's cheeks were tinged pink in slight embarrassment and he lifted a brow when John grinned.

"It's your job, Sherlock. And mine too I guess, so it's not much of a problem." John kissed Sherlock again. "Now, stay like that. You look lovely when you're blushing."

* * *

The morning had started off favorable, with both men in content, happy moods. But by the time noon rolled around, and the bomber had yet to call again, John found himself angered by Sherlock's perpetual scowl at not having a new hostage situations. It was as if he actually liked these cases! John shut away the stewing thoughts and he and Sherlock sat in their respective chairs, watching the news program. It showed a long pan of an exploded building, the multiple rooms confirming that it was an old block of flats. Sherlock had ended up muting the show, muttering about the bomber. And he had said "novel" as he described his action, with such a look of bloody admiration, John couldn't hold his temper. He reeled on the detective, immensely angered by the sheer lack of care Sherlock seemed to have for these people. As always, Sherlock remained calm and collected, barely even batting an eyelash at John's sharp retorts. And Sherlock, oh he told John not to make people into heroes. That they don't exist.

That he wasn't one of them.

* * *

John was positively melting, and this damn parka was to blame. He was surprised to not have been freezing from just the thought bombs covering him, the anxiety making his leg ache. John wasn't even sure where he was. The walls were covered in tiles, the faded periwinkle and cream colors weaving a pattern. And it smelled heavily like chemicals; no, chlorine. Was he at a pool?

John felt sweat break against his forehead and he shifted uncomfortably. Suddenly, he heard footsteps. They were light, too light. And definitely not belonging anyone he knew. The door opened, and more like shown into the dim room.

"Nearly show time. You ready, Johnny-boy?"

* * *

The phone had gone after that, and depicted a wet shore that Sherlock easily identified. They searched the papers a bit, looking for anything that might be of relation. Hither John nor Sherlock found anything and the detective was beginning to sulk when Lestrade called, saying that a body had washed up. They were at the scene quickly, with Sherlock not wanting to waste any time. The man seemed to have asphyxiated, but from what was unknown. Lestrade whether the bomber was involved, since it didn't seem to fit his previous string of hostage and murder tactics. Sherlock seemed in another place when he went off asking about a painting that had recently been found. He claimed it was a fake, and when Lestrade questioned how it had anything to do with the body, Sherlock grinned.

"Ever heard of Golem?"

He went on to explain that Golem was one of the world's deadliest assassins, and that the man had been killed by his trademark style. The man lying in front of them was Alex Woodbridge, as identified by the missing claim the museum at which he worked had put out. Sherlock topped it off with a clean statement, saying that Alex must have known something about the painting that would prevent the owner from getting paid their £30,000,000.

"I guess I'll put my feelers out for this Golem character." Lestrade had sighed. Sherlock scoffed and shook his head.

"Pointless. You'll never find him." a mischievous smirk played at Sherlock's lips. "Though, I know someone who can."

"Who?"

"Me!" Sherlock set off, his strides a bit more confident and assured than usual. John sighed and sent Lestrade a withering look before following. They went up to the main road, upon which Sherlock promptly hailed a cab. John didn't catch the address that Sherlock told the driver, but didn't bother to ask. Surely, he had decided on a place that required investigation. The ride was quiet as they went along, and the frustration was visible in Sherlock's shoulders. One of his hands held the pink phone, awaiting its call. The other was placed under John's, the army doctor running his thumb soothingly over the pale skin beneath his own. Sherlock scowled at the device.

"Why hasn't he phoned?" he said suddenly. "He's broken his pattern. Why?"

A thought seemed to strike Sherlock as fast as the outburst had, and he leaned forward to the taxi driver.

"Waterloo Bridge."

"Where now? The Gallery?" John asked.

"In a bit." Sherlock replied.

"The Hickman's contemporary art, isn't it?" John turned and looked at the detective. "Why have they got hold of an Old Master?"

"Don't know." He shrugged a bit. "Dangerous to jump to conclusions. Need data." Sherlock took his notebook out of his pocket and quickly jotted something down before tearing out the page and folding a bank note into it. He put the paper and notebook back into his pocket and seemed to settle for only a few seconds before calling back out to the driver.

"Stop!"

The cab pulled over to the side of the road and Sherlock opened the door. He paused in getting out and looked back at John.

"You wait here. I won't be a moment." he got out and went to the railing at the edge of the pavement and easily vaulted over them. John called his name then shook his head in exasperation. He left the cab and scrambled out over the railings, nearly falling as he got over to the other side. Sherlock trotted up some steps to where a young homeless woman was sitting on a bench under Waterloo Bridge. She had a large bag beside her with a handwritten cardboard sign poking out of the top.

"Change? Any change?" she asked as Sherlock and John got close. Sherlock stopped in front of her and stuck a hand in his pocket.

"What for?"

"Cup of tea, of course."

Sherlock drew out the paper he had written and held it out to the girl. "Here you go; fifty."

She smiled at him and her eyebrow quirked. "Thanks."

Sherlock didn't reply, only turning away and beginning to walk back to the cab. John looked at him in confusion as he followed close behind.

"What are you doing?" he asked, pointing back at the girl. Sherlock easily leaped back over the rails and held a hand out to John. The shorter man looked back to where the girl was now reading Sherlock's note before taking his boyfriend's hand and climbing back over the railings.

"Now, to the Gallery."

John got in before him and Sherlock paused halfway into the cab. He smiled a bit, the gesture seeming a tad sheepish. John narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"Got any cash?"

* * *

When they pulled up in front of the gallery, Sherlock quickly pecked John on the lips and got out.

"No, you stay. I need you to get as much information on the attendant as possible. Lestrade will give you the address." John nodded and waved a little bit at Sherlock as he closed the cab door and began to walk up to the gallery. John settled back into the seat and sighed a bit as his phone buzzed. He took it out to see Greg's name and a new text message. The message contained the address as Sherlock said it would, and an inquiry about how everything was going.

"Good. I'm getting info on Alex Woodbridge right now. Sherlock is at the gallery." John sent the text and waited only a few moments before getting a new one.

**"He better be careful. Chasing after that Golem guy, it's like the reverse of The Hobbit."**

"He's one crap hobbit then. Too tall, doesn't eat enough. Anyways, want to go out for a pint when this mess is over?"

**"God, yeah. I need a break from this. Normal time?"**

"Sure. It bloody well be soon!"

**"Agreed!"**

John pocketed the phone and relayed the address to the driver, who almost immediately took a turn and set them on the right path. A short time later, he arrived at a small building, obviously a block of flats. John walked into the open door, then consulted his phone for the appropriate level and door number. He rapped quickly on the door and only waited a moment before a woman opened up.

"Ah, hello." John greeted her. "I'm uh, with the police. Alex Woodbridge lived here, yes?"

"Oh, yes." the woman opened up the door further and welcomed John in. She introduced herself as Julie and led John up to Alex's tiny attics bedroom. Clothes were scattered about and John only half listened to Julie as he gazed around the room. His eyes settled on a telescope covered by a sheet.

"May I?" he asked, Julie nodded and gesturing in reply. John's fingers lightly touched the telescope and the sheet fell from it and onto the floor. John apologized, but didn't stop looking at the telescope.

"Bit of a stargazer, was he?"

"God, yeah." Julie smiled a bit as she thought about it. "He was mad about it." John smiled a bit in reply and continued to look around. He asked a few more questions, and found out that Alex had received a voicemail only hours before he went missing. John listened to it, but didn't find much helpful information. However, he did have a name.

Professor Cairns.

* * *

Her heels clicked loudly as she walked across the linoleum floor, the sound echoing in the empty building. She turned a corner and saw the back of a man, his body blocking the view of the gallery's newest painting.

"Don't you have something to do?"

"Mm, just admiring the view."

"Yes, that's lovely. Now get back to work. We open tonight."

The man turned, and unknown to her, she was staring the world's only consulting detective in the face.

"Doesn't it bother you?" he asked, walking towards her. She gave Sherlock an odd look.

"Excuse me?"

"That the painting's a fake." Sherlock smiled as he watched her become angry, her fists clenching and nostrils flaring.

_"What?"_

"It's a fake. It has to be. It's the only possible explanation." Sherlock walked closer to her and gazed down at the I.D. badge. He read her name then flicked his eyes back up to her's.

"Alex Woodbridge knew that the painting was a fake, so somebody sent the Golem to take care of him. Was it you?"

"Golem? What the hell are you talking about?" she said, looking at him in irritation and confusion. Sherlock frowned a bit. She definitely wasn't lying about not knowing the hired killer.

"Or are you working for someone else? Did you fake it for them?"

"It's not a fake." she said, stepping up close to him in anger. Sherlock snorted and glanced back at it.

"It is a fake. Don't know why, but there's something wrong with it. There has to be."

"What the hell are you on about? You know, I could have you sacked on the spot." She put her hands on her hips and squared her shoulders in an attempt to look more threatening. Sherlock smiled at her and titled his head a bit.

"Not a problem. I don't work here, you see. Just popped in to give you a bit of friendly advice."

"How did you get in?" she asked, her voice rising. Sherlock scoffed and raised a brow.

"Please. The art of disguise is knowing how to hide in plain sight." Sherlock turned on his heel and began to walk away, taking off his cap.

"Who are you?"

"Sherlock Holmes." he replied, dropping the cap onto one of the railing posts and walking onwards.

"Am I supposed to be impressed?" she spat, crossing her arms in front of her. Sherlock paused for a millisecond, then nodded.

"You should be!" he called, peeling off the jacket. Sherlock turned to look at her as he deliberately dropped it on the floor. He reached the doors and flamboyantly shoved one open, then nearly danced through it.

"Have a nice day!"

* * *

Later, John went to Andrew West's flat after receiving another pressing text message from Mycroft. He was met by the man's fiancée, who immediately welcomed him in. She prepared tea for John and herself, then became upset by the following conversation.

"Westie wasn't a traitor. It's a horrible thing to say!"

John apologized, but explained that it was what his bosses were thinking, and it might have been the only answer that fit the evidence. He asked her about the night that Andrew went missing and she fondly recalled upon it, telling John that they had only been enjoying a DVD together when Andrew abruptly left. She began to cry and John somewhat awkwardly tried to comfort her.

Within an hour, John was being shown out of the flat by Lucy. They were met by a bicycle rider, who Lucy introduced as her brother Joe. He gave John a look over, then seemed to deem him trustworthy and genuine. John thanked Lucy for all her held and expressed his sympathies again. As he began to walk away, she called out to him.

"He didn't steal those things, Mr. Watson." John stopped and turned to look back at her.

"I knew Westie. He was a good man. He was my good man." She turned away without another word and went back inside. John pursed his lips in thought for a moment, then continued walking.

By the time John reached Baker St, it was far past dusk and frankly, he was wiped out. Sherlock stepped out of 221 as John's taxi pulled up, and the army doctor thought with a touched heart that Sherlock had come out to meet him. John stepped out and Sherlock walked towards him.

"Alex Woodbridge didn't know anything special about art."

"And?"

"And what?"

Sherlock looked towards the homeless girl that had relocated to across the street. He began to head towards her, but continued to talk to John.

"Is that it? No habits, hobbies, personality?" he asked as John trailed behind him.

"Give me a chance!" John sighed. "He wasn't much besides an amateur astronomer." Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks and pointed towards a taxi.

"Hold that cab." John nodded and trotted over to it while Sherlock went to the girl. She looked up at him and smiled.

"Spare change, sir?"

"Don't mind if I do." he replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up. He opened up the piece of paper she handed him and saw that she had written "Vauxhall Arches" in the middle of it. Sherlock smiled at her briefly, then turned and walked back to John.

"Fortunately, I haven't been idle." Sherlock commented, smiling at John. He opened the cab door and got in, then nodded at John.

"Come on."

A short ride later, the pair were out of the cab and walking along beside each other. Sherlock buttoned up his coat as he gazed up at the night sky.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" He stepped closer to John, their hands brushing. The army doctor looked up at him.

"I thought you didn't care about things like that." John commented, elbowing his boyfriend slightly. Sherlock sent him a sideways smile as he turned to him.

"Just because I don't seem to care about them, doesn't mean that I can't appreciate beautiful things." Sherlock lowered his head to kiss John quickly, pulling away with a fond smile. John was left speechless, but made up for it by pulling Sherlock down by his coat collar for another kiss. God, he loved this man. He loved the brilliant parts of him, and the parts that made him the world's biggest arse, and these bloody sentimental parts that seemed to compose poetry that rocketed itself right through John's skin and straight to his heart. They broke apart and John swept his thumb over the top of Sherlock's hand once before they began to walk into the arches.

"Alex Woodbridge had a message on the answerphone at his flat," John said. "a Professor Cairns?"

"This way." Sherlock directed, steering John and himself in the correct direction.

"Nice part of town." John commented sarcastically. "Any time you wanna explain?"

"Homeless network," Sherlock replied easily. "Really is indispensable."

John nodded and grabbed the small flashlight he had from his pocket, then switched it on.

"Homeless network?"

"My eyes and ears all over the city."

"Oh, that's clever," he said. "So you scratch their backs and..."

"Yes, then I disinfect myself." Sherlock took his own flashlight out of his pocket and shined it around as they continued into the darkness of the Arches. Their beams flashed and picked out multiple people who were scattered all about and settling down for the night. Suddenly, the shadow of a man began to rise, his height dark against the brick wall. Sherlock grasped John's hand tightly as they ducked to the side of the wall. The man seemed to straightened up for ages, until finally at his full height, John realized that he was over 7 feet tall, and clearly muscular.

"What's he doing sleeping rough?" John whispered to Sherlock. The detective peered around corner carefully.

"Well, he has a very distinctive look. He has to hide somewhere where tongues won't wag...much."

John looked down and realized that he had come without something that had grown increasingly essential.

"Oh, shit." he swore, grimacing. "I wish I'd-" Sherlock suddenly shoved the pistol into John's free hand and gave him a fleeting smile.

"Don't mention it."

In the next moment, the man broke into a run and hurried down another tunnel. Sherlock and John went after him, reaching the tunnel just in time to see hi climb into a waiting car, which immediately sped off. Sherlock grasped at the air in frustration.

"No, no, no! It will take us weeks to find him again!" he growled. John grabbed his arm, effectively catching the man's attention. John shook his head.

"I have an idea where he might be going."

"What?!" Sherlock's face lit up at this new information and he turned to completely face John.

"I told you," John said. "someone left Alex Woodbridge a message. There can't be that many Professor Cairns in the book. Come on."

They managed to hail down a cab, and Sherlock shouted at the driver to go as fast as he could. They arrived within 10 minutes, and raced into the gallery. Quickly locating the theater, they raced in to find Golem with his hand clamped over a woman's mouth. Sherlock bellowed the man's name and he looked up, surprised. He snapped the woman's neck the next second and dropped her to the floor harshly. As she went down, her fingers dragged along the mixing desk and the footage on the screen fast-forwarded, plunging the enormous room into darkness.

"John!" Sherlock called, as Golem ducked out of view.

"I can't see him!" he replied, looking around somewhat anxiously. "I'll go round. I'll go!"

The footage continued to spool on the screen, light flashing on and off. Sherlock looked around as John hurried off. "Who are you working for this time, Dzundza?" he said, taking a few steps forward. Behind him, Golem stepped out of the fluctuating darkness and clamped one hand around Sherlock's mouth and nose while gripping his neck with the other. Sherlock grasped at the hand on his face, struggling to pull them free. John heard the strangled gasp and looked over, then drew his gun and bolted back to them.

"Golem!" John yelled the name, holding his pistol with both hands and aiming. He cocked the gun and pointed it dead center in the man's face.

"Let him go or I will kill you."John managed to keep his voice steady, but inside he was in a panic. Sherlock made pained whimpering noises as he slowly suffocated, continuing his efforts to wretch the large hands from his face. As the room plunged into darkness again. Golem lashed out and kicked the gun from John's hands. He dropped Sherlock and surged forward to wrestle with John. Sherlock shakily rose to his feet, but was knocked back down again as Golem shoved John into him. The detective scrambled up a second time and took a boxing stance, holding his fists up in front of his face. He swung, but Golem grabbed his hand and sent a heavy blow down onto his shoulder, dropping him to the floor again. He followed the detective down, clamping both hands onto his face and leaning his weight onto them. John threw himself onto the killer's back, wrapping his arms around the man's neck as tight as he could. Golem roared in anger, desperately trying to claw the smaller man from his back. He began to spin, turning several times before he was able to knock John off. The army doctor was reeling from he impact of hitting the floor and groggily tried to stand, rising only to his knees. Golem turned and picked Sherlock up from behind him, then skimmed the detective across the floor and smashed him into John. Sherlock managed to grab John's pistol from the floor as he slid, and raised it to shoot. Golem ran for the doors and evaded the two shots fired at him. The door swung shut, and Sherlock slammed his fists down onto the floor furiously.

The next morning, they were back at the gallery, though Lestrade and and Miss Wenceslas had joined them. Sherlock stood in front of the Vermeer painting, looking up information on his phone. He insisted that it was a fake, that it had to be a fake. Miss Wenceslas scoffed at this, and demanded that Lestrade show himself and his friends out. The pink phone suddenly began to ring and Sherlock snatched it from his pocket and connected the call.

"The painting is a fake." he declared, his voice confident and strong. Only the faint sound of someone breathing came through the speaker, and Sherlock scowled.

"t's a fake. That's why Woodbridge and Cairns were killed." Still, nothing more than breathing met their ears, and Sherlock clenched his empty hand. "Oh, come on. Proving it's just the detail. The painting is a fake. I've solved it. I've figured it out. It's a fake! That's the answer. That's why they were killed." The phone remained otherwise silent and the detective had to take a deep breath to calm himself.

"Okay, I'll prove it. Give me time. Will you give me time?" They waited only a moment before the voice of the current hostage spoke.

_"Ten..."_ the tremulous voice of a young boy echoed from the phone and Sherlock's eyes widened in shock. He instantly turned around and looked closely at the panting.

_"Nine..."_

"It's a countdown," Sherlock said as he squinted to inspect every possible detail of the painting. "He's giving me time."

"Jesus!" Lestrade muttered, shaking his head in horror.

"The painting is a fake, but how can I prove it? How? How?" The boy continued to count down and Sherlock wheeled on Miss Wenceslas, demanding she tell him how it was a fake. He lifted up a hand to silence her in the next moment, saying that this was his to figure out. John turned and walked a few paces away, his shoulder's rigid with tension. Lestrade shook his head again, and John figured that he was probably imaging some scenario where it was one of his children sitting them in terror, being forced to play this game.

"Must be possible." Sherlock said to himself. "Must be staring me in the face."

_"Six..."_

"Woodbridge knew, but how? How?" Sherlock murmured urgently. His heart was hammering in his chest and his head had begun to feel like it was in the middle of an atomic bomb with the way all his known information was being thrown about in a frantic search.

**"Five..."**

"It's speeding up!" Lestrade warned. John turned back to Sherlock and their eyes connected for a split second. John's brows were furrowed and his mouth was in a tight, anxious line. Sherlock's as flicked everywhere over the painting, scanning every square inch of the canvas. His gaze finally settled on three tiny dots in the night sky. His mouth feel open as all the pieces came together and connected seamlessly.

_"Four."_

"In the planetarium!" Sherlock exclaimed. "You heard it too. Oh, that is brilliant! That is gorgeous!" He turned away from the painting and shoved the pink phone into John's hands. Sherlock took a few steps away, pulling his own phone from his pocket.

_"Three..."_

"What's brilliant? What is?" John asked frantically. Sherlock was rapidly typing now and turned back to face the painting, laughing in obvious delight.

"This is beautiful. I love this!"

_"Two."_

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said furiously. Sherlock grabbed the pink phone from John's hands and held it close to his mouth.

"The Van Buren Supernova!"

There was a short pause of complete silence, and Sherlock held his breath in anticipation.

_"Please. Is somebody there?"_ Everyone let out a relieved breath as they boy spoke on his own accord, now pleading for help. Sherlock turned and handed the phone to Lestrade, nodding at him.

"There you go. Go find out where he is and pick him up." Sherlock's eyes flickered to John, who gave him a tiny, relieved smile.

"The Van Buren Supernova," he held up his phone over his shoulder so that Miss Wenceslas could see the screen. "Exploding star, only appeared in the sky in eighteen fifty-eight." Sherlock turned on his heel and threw her a triumphant look, then began to walk away. John inhaled slowly, then took a few steps closer to the painting.

"So how could it have been painted in the sixteen forties?" he grinned over his shoulder at Miss Wenceslas, then looked back to the painting. His phone trilled in his pocket, and John took it out to read a text message from Mycroft, who's demeanor could be felt through the small screen. He frowned and sighed a bit, the turned again to follow Sherlock out.

They went to Scotland Yard finally, with everyone filing into Lestrade's office. Lestrade seemed to melt into his seat when he sat down, all the visible tension finally trickling out. Sherlock took a seat and stared at Miss Wenceslas. Her head was down and she stared at her lap, effectively avoiding Sherlock gaze.

"What are we looking at, Inspector?"

Well, um, criminal conspiracy, fraud, accessory after the fact at the very least." he replied thoughtfully. "The murder of the old woman, all the people in the flats..."

"I didn't know anything about that!" she said, panicked. " All those things! Please believe me." She continued to stare at Lestrade anxiously, her eyes wide and pleading. Sherlock gave the DI a small nod, confirming that she was telling the truth.

"I found a little old man in Argentina. Genius. I mean, really: brushwork immaculate, could fool anyone." Sherlock snorted, and she looked at him briefly. She shook her head again and turned back to Lestrade.

"But I didn't know how to go about convincing the world the picture was genuine. It was just an idea, a spark which he blew into a flame."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, sitting forward sharply. She shook her head.

"I don't know."

Lestrade laughed in disbelief, his brows furrowing in slight anger. She clenched her fists in desperation.

"It's true! I mean, it took a long time, but eventually I was put in touch with people...his people."  
Sherlock slowly sat up in the chair, his expression growing concentrated. Miss Wenceslas bit her lip in thought.

"Well, there was never any real contact; just messages...whispers."

"And did those whispers have a name?" Sherlock asked, leaning towards her with his face intense. She gazed ahead of herself for a moment, then looked to Lestrade before nodding. She turned back to Sherlock.

"Moriarty."

* * *

John hadn't gotten much sleep by the time he was heading out to Battersea. While Sherlock had gone to Scotland Yard with Lestrade and Miss Wenceslas for further questioning, John had taken a cab back to the flat, eaten the leftover soup, then promptly passed out in the bed. Sherlock had come in around 1 and started composing, the music delicate and soft. That is, until he began to play feverish, screeching tones that woke John from his sleep. He stomped out of the bedroom and into the living room, then ripped the instrument from his boyfriend's hands. Sherlock understood the message behind John's smoldering glare and promptly put an end to his composing. John grabbed his arm sharply, hauled the detective to bed, told him to lay down and shut up, then went right back to sleep without another word.

John's alarm went off around 7, and he wanted nothing more than to whip the device at the wall. Sherlock lay dozing next to him, his face smushed into the pillow. Low snores told John that he was still asleep, and the doctor sighed as he hauled himself out of bed. He grabbed fresh clothes from his dresser and took a quick shower before heading out.

Now, he walked along the railway line with the tube guard who had found Andrew West's body.

"So this is where West was found?" John asked as they came to stop at a certain section. The guard nodded in confirmation.

"You with the police, then?" he asked. John paused in thought.

"Sort of."

"I hate 'em."

"The police?" John asked, looking up. The guard shook his head and gestured at the line.

"No. People who chuck themselves in front of trains. Selfish bastards." he crossed his arms and shook his head. John shrugged a little.

"Well, that's one way of looking at it." John replied, squatting down to inspect the line more closely.

"I mean it." the guard said firmly. "It's all right for them. It's over in a split second, strawberry jam all over the lines. What about the drivers, hmm? They've gotta live with it, haven't they?"

John paid little attention to the guard as he ran his fingers along the track, then lifted his hand and looked at it.

"Yeah, speaking of strawberry jam, there's no blood on the line." John stood up and faced the guard. "Has it been cleaned off?"

"No, there wasn't that much."

"You said his head was smashed in." John replied, giving the man an odd look.

"Well, it was," the man shrugged. "But there wasn't much blood."

John nodded slowly and turned back to the line, giving it a long look. The guard gestured at the line again.

"Well, I'll leave you to it then. Just give us a shout when you're off."

"Right." John said, walking down the line a few yards. The guard walked away and John sighed.

"Right, so Andrew West got on the train somewhere...or did he? There's no ticket on the body. Then how did he end up here?" John murmured to himself as he noticed one of the points change and the track slide sideways into a new layout. He squatted down and looked at it thoughtfully.

"Points."

John sprung to his feet at the voice behind him and turned to see Sherlock standing nearby.

"I knew you'd get there eventually. West wasn't killed here; that's why there was so little blood." Sherlock walked closer and looked down at the line.

"How long have you been following me?" John inquired. Sherlock gave him a little smirk.

"Since the start. You don't think I'd give up on a case like this just to spite my brother, do you?" he turned and began to walk away, glancing back at John.

"Come on. Got a bit of burglary to do."

A short time later, they arrived at the drive of a maisonette and climbed the steps at the side of the building which lead to the front steps of flat 21A.

"Sherlock! What if someone's in?" John whispered urgently as Sherlock rummaged in his pocket. Sherlock drew out his lock picker and easily got through the lock.

"There isn't." he said simply, opening the door and going inside. John shook his head in exasperation, then hurried in after him and shut the door. They climbed a short flight of stairs that were ahead of then and found themselves in the living room.

"Where are we?"

"Oh, sorry, didn't I say? Joe Harrison's flat." Sherlock walked over to the window and pulled back the net curtain. He grinned in satisfaction at the sight that greeted him outside.

"Joe Harrison?"

"Brother of West's fiancée." Sherlock replied. He craned his neck to look a little further, his grin widening. "He stole the memory stick; killed his prospective brother-in-law."

Sherlock dropped to his knees and took out his magnifier, then ran it slowly along the edge of the windowsill. John walked across to him and peered over his shoulder as Sherlock spotted some tiny red spots on the paint. The sound of the front door unlocking resonated throughout the flat, and both men stood quickly. John reached around to the back of his jeans as he quietly walked to the door of the room while the front door slammed shut. John stepped out onto the landing just as Joe leaned his bicycle against the wall. Joe spotted John and picked up the victor again, as if he intended to use it as a weapon.

"Don't." John told him sternly, raising his right hand to aim the pistol. Joe kept on coming at him, but stopped when John added his other hand in his grip. He sighed in frustration and fear, then reluctantly put the bike back down.

Shortly afterwards, Joe sat on his couch as Sherlock and John stood on either side and stared at him. He tried to reason that it was never meant to happen this way, that it was a complete accident. Joe revealed that he had begun o deal drugs and was in debt to very serious people. He owed thousands, and had no way to get the money. Then, when Andrew had started talking about his job over a few pints, Joe saw his opportunity. He managed to slip the USB from Andrew's jacket, and said nothing about it.

However, the next time he saw Andrew, Joe knew that he had been found out. They had gotten into a scuffle at the landing outside the front door and when shoved, Andrew toppled down the steps, landing heavily on the ground. Joe had planned on calling an ambulance, but it was too late. He instead hauled the dead man's body up into his living room and contemplated what his next move would be. Joe saw a possible solution and pursued it, pulling Andrew's body out the window and depositing it on the top of a train. His body would've remained there and been driven off for ages if not for the section of the track that curved. The jolting combined with the curve threw Andrew's body off the roof and onto the trackside, making it easy to find his body the next morning.

John asked if Joe still had the USB, which he did. Sherlock asked for it and he complied, sighing unhappily as he went off to get it. Now alone, Sherlock walked closer to John.

"Distraction over, the game continues." he said quietly. John looked at him.

"Well, maybe that's over, too. We've heard nothing from the bomber."

"Five pips, remember, John?" Sherlock shook his head. "It's a countdown. We've only had four."

They went home after that, and found that despite it being nearly a week since the explosion, the flat's heating was still broken. They settled in with their coats on, Sherlock plopping down into his chair and John retrieving his laptop and beginning to type on it while he sat at the dining room table. The pink phone sat on the arm of the chair next to Sherlock who was currently occupied with shouting at the telly.

"No, no, no! Of course he's not the boy's father!" He gestured angrily at the screen. "Look at the turn-ups on his jeans!" Sherlock scowled and folded his arms over his chest, making John chuckle as he turned back to his laptop.

"I knew it was dangerous."

"What was?"

"Getting you into crap telly." Sherlock smiled a bit and John grinned. The doctor turned back to his laptop and continued to type.

"Oh, have you given Mycroft the memory stick yet?" he asked, not looking up from the screen. Sherlock nodded.

"Yep. He was over the moon. Threatened me with a knighthood...again." John chuckled and closed his laptop, then sat for a moment longer before standing.

"You know," he began. "I'm still waiting for you to admit that a little knowledge of the solar system and you'd have cleared up the fake painting a lot quicker."

"Didn't do you any good, did it?" Sherlock replied, his voice gaining a sharp edge at the prospect of being bothered about this topic again. John smiled as he walked into the living room and over to Sherlock's chair.

"No, but I'm not the world's only consulting detective."

"Mmm, very true." he replied, turning and smiling at John. The doctor rolled his eyes, then leaned down and kissed Sherlock soundly. He pulled away and went to the door.

"I won't be in for tea, Greg and I are gonna get a few pints. Eat something." John stressed the last part, because for all he knew, the last thing Sherlock had eaten was 2 days ago. The detective nodded, his eyes still fixated on the telly.

"Yes, fine." he muttered, making John smile contently. He zipped up his coat and opened the door, then paused.

"Uh, milk. We need milk."

"I'll get some."

John turned back to Sherlock with a wide look of disbelief."Really?!"

"Really."

"And some beans, then?" he added hopefully. Sherlock made a noise in confirmation and John nodded slowly in growing satisfaction. He hesitated a moment longer, then walked out and closed the door behind him. Sherlock continued to gaze at the telly until he heard the downstairs door open and close, then turned his attention to his side. He picked up his laptop from where it had been nestled down next to him notebook from where it was tucked down beside him. Putting it on his lap and opening the lid, he stared at the message box on his website before beginning to type.

**Found. The Bruce-Partington plans. Please collect.**

Sherlock lifted his eyes in thought for a moment, then quirked a small smile before returning to his typing.

**The Pool. Midnight.**

* * *

John tried to control his breathing that waned to go haywire with anger and hate and fear when his captor opened the door and stepped in. He had a skinny profile and an expensive suit fit it to a tee. He was pale, but still dark, with dark hair and nearly black eyes. His the sound of his shoes hitting the tile went off like gunshots in his head, each step growing louder as he drew closer. John held his breath as the man came to stand directly in front of him, their bodies only inches away from touching one another.

"Oh, isn't this just delightful? Aren't you just delightful..." He walked around John, like some sort of predator closing in on its prey. John felt icy fingers brush against the skin on the back of neck and he shivered involuntarily. The man smiled and circled back around to John's front.

"Do you know who I am?" he asked slowly, as if talking to a child. John sneered at him.

"Moriarty." he spat, scowling darkly. Moriarty grinned and laughed.

"Very good! You're a smart one, aren't you? I can see why he chose you..." Moriarty leaned in suddenly and John stumbled back, falling hard against the wall. His heart was hammering in his chest as Moriarty advanced on and stepped dangerously close into John's space. His hand lightly touched the side of John's face and he ducked his head down. John's eyes widened in horror and he pushed the man away, then moved hurriedly. Moriarty only smiled at how John's shoulders heaved with anger and fear and how worried the army doctor had been at the prospect of something as meaningless as a kiss.

"Hmm, a little jumpy are we? What a shame..." Moriarty flashed him a grin and stuck his hands in his trouser pockets. "Maybe next time, yeah? I'll take you again, Jonny-boy. But unfortunately..." Moriarty's eyes flickered back as John heard he pool door open squeakily. "We're out of time!" he whispered the last part, then nodded to John.

"You know the drill by now. Say only what I tell you, and don't speak otherwise. You can do that, can't you?" Moriarty walked past John and his fingers brushed over the shorter man's clenched fist. John jumped away as if he had been electrocuted and bit the inside of his cheek nervously as Moriarty disappeared out an adjacent door.

"Brought you a little getting-to-know-you present." Sherlock's voice sounded so suddenly that John had to try his hardest not to make a noise. He held his breath as the detective continued to speak.

"Oh, that's what it's all been for, hasn't it? All your little puzzles; making me dance...all to distract me from this."

_**"Go now."**_

John swallowed and forced himself to make a blank face, then went to the door. He took a breath, grabbed the door knob, then opened it up and walked out. Sherlock's back was to him, though he looked over his shoulder. In the man's hands was the USB stick, and John watched as his hands relaxed in shock.

"Evening." John hated how his voice remained steady, how he was able to remain calm and just stand there with his sweating hands shoved into the pockets of the parka and not show Sherlock how bad the tremor was; and how it had spread to his other hand.

"This is a turn-up, isn't it, Sherlock? Bet you never saw this coming."

Finally, Sherlock began to move, walking slowly towards the man that had intertwined himself so deeply in his heart, that had torn down his walls and nestled himself snugly into Sherlock's soul, into Sherlock's being, into every atom that made up the detective.

He loved this man. No, no, none of this could be possible. John was just an army doctor with a dodgy leg and he was ordinary, and he wouldn't have been able to pull this off. Sherlock would've normally found this sort of situation clever and fascinating but now, he didn't feel that way at all.

All he felt was numbness and despair and the sharp pieces of his jagged, breaking heart piercing his ribs and making it hard to breath. John's expression turned suddenly, filling with anguish and sorrow. He took his hands out from his pockets, then pulled open the parka front to reveal the bomb strapped to his chest. A red sniper's laser immediately began to dance over the device and Sherlock's eyes widened in horror.

"What ... would you like me ... to make him say ... next?"

Everything seemed to backpedal in Sherlock's mind and he put together the pieces and found that his heart was still broken, but not from the thought of everything being one big lie. It was from the thought of having to lose the only person that mattered to him, the only person he loved. Sherlock continued towards John, but was now looking everywhere but at at John as he tried to spot who else was in the area.

"Gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer ... gottle o' geer." John's voice nearly broke on the last phrase and Sherlock felt his throat tighten up uncomfortably.

"Stop it."

"Nice touch, this: the pool where little Carl died. I stopped him." John visibly cringed at the following words. "I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart."

Sherlock turned on his heel, eyes flickering everywhere in an attempt to see anything, just something that could get them out of here. "Who are you?"

"I gave you my number." a soft voice with an Irish accent echoed in the room as a door opened a smidge. "I thought you might call."

The door opened completely, and out stepped Moriarty, a small smirk dancing on his features. He walked a bit towards them, a merry sway in his step.

"Is that British Army Browning L9A1 in your pocket..."

Sherlock reached into his pocket and drew out a pistol.

"or are you just pleased to see me?"

"Both." Sherlock said sharply, raising the gun and aiming it at Moriarty. The man stopped, but he was unafraid.

"Jim Moriarty. Hi!" he walked a little bit further and turned his head as if confused.

"Jim? Jim from the hospital?" Sherlock brought up his other hand to support the one that was aiming the gun. Jim bit his lip as if disappointed.

"Oh. Did I really make such a fleeting impression? But then, I suppose, that was rather the point." He turned to face Sherlock just as the sniper's laser flickered over John's upper chest again. Sherlock's head briefly turned to look, a puzzled expression growing on his face.

Don't be silly." Jim said, beginning to walk again. "Someone else is holding the rifle. I don't like getting my hands dirty." He reached the corner of the pool and stopped.

"I've given you a glimpse, Sherlock, just a teensy glimpse of what I've got going on out there in the big bad world. I'm a specialist, you see...just like you!"

"Consulting criminal..." Sherlock's voice grew quiet. "Brilliant."

"Isn't it?" Jim replied, smiling proudly."No one ever gets to me, and no one ever will."

"I did."

"You've come the closest." Jim sighed. "Now you're in my way."

"Thank you." Sherlock said mildly, cocking the gun.

"Didn't mean it as a compliment."

"Yes you did." he retorted. Jim shrugged.

"Yeah, okay, I did. But the flirting's over, Sherlock..." Jim's voice suddenly went pitches high and adapted a singsong like quality to it."Daddy's had enough now!" He began to walk again and dropped down to his normal tone.

"I've shown you what I can do. I cut loose all those people, all those little problems, even thirty million quid just to get you to come out and play." John closed his eyes, beginning to really the feel the staring of the situation that was upon him. Sherlock tried to keep his attention fixed on Moriarty, but couldn't help but look over at John with evident concern.

"I have loved this, this little game of ours. Playing Jim from I.T. Playing gay. Did you like the little touch with the underwear?" his voice switched between the London accent and the Irish one, and he sounded just as a delighted child would on Christmas. Sherlock scowled.

"People have died."

"That's what people _DO!_" Moriarty screeched the last word furiously, and John cringed. God, why was Sherlock playing along? Why wouldn't he just run?

"You all right?" Sherlock asked John, licking his lips nervously. John was clearly sweating, and Sherlock could already see him swaying a bit on his feet. He had to do something, he would do anything if it meant getting John out of here alive.

John deliberately kept his gaze away from Sherlock, and the detective realized that he had to play by the rules as well, he couldn't dare stray from the words Moriarty had for him.

"You can talk, Johnny-boy. Go ahead." Sherlock sneered at this nickname and felt the anger begin to bubble up inside his chest, like a match dropped into gasoline. John now looked up, gave Sherlock a curt nod, then looked back down. Sherlock took one hand off the pistol to hold out the memory stick.

"Take it."

"Huh? Oh! That!" Jim said the last word with glee, then strolled past John to pluck the USB from Sherlock's fingers. "The missile plans!" He brought it to his lips, then placed a light kiss on the stick. Jim lowered the memory stick and looked at it, then cocked his head.

"Boring! I could have got them anywhere" He nonchalantly tosses the stick into the pool, then grinned at Sherlock. Suddenly, John surged forward and slammed himself up against Jim's back, wrapping one arm around his neck and the other around his chest. Sherlock backed up a step in surprise but managed to keep the pistol up and raised at Moriarty.

"Sherlock, run!" John said urgently, his voice on the verge of begging. Jim laughed in delight, tilting his head back a little. Sherlock didn't run, but rather he only looked up anxiously, wondering what action the hidden sniper might take.

"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up." John's voice was savage, and it threatened to crumble at the thought of Sherlock being caught up in any explosion. Moriarty only smiled.

"Isn't he sweet? I can see why you like having him around. But then people do get so sentimental about their pets." Moriarty was jerked back as John tightened his grip, forcing the bomb to dig even further into Jim's back. Moriarty turned his head a bit to scowl at John.

"They're so touchingly loyal. But, oops!" His scowl turned into a devilish grin and he looked towards Sherlock.

"You've rather shown your hand there, Doctor Watson." Moriarty chuckled as another laser pointed formed on Sherlock's forehead and danced over the pale skin. The color drained from John's face as he stared at him in growing horror. Sherlock realized what was happening and shook his head slightly, grimacing. John released his grip and stepped back, holding up his hands in a signal that he wouldn't be doing anything more. Moriarty ran his hands down the front on his suit, straightening it. He gestured to it indignantly.

"Westwood!" he lowered his hands and stood there calmly as Sherlock continued to aim the pistol at his head.

"D'you know what happens if you don't leave me alone, Sherlock, to you?"

"Oh, let me guess," Sherlock said, sounding bored. "I get killed."

"Kill you?" Moriarty grimaced in distaste. "No, no, don't be obvious. I mean, I'm gonna kill you anyway some day. I don't wanna rush it, though. I'm saving it up for something special. No, no, no, no, if you don't stop prying, I'll burn you." His eyes ran down Sherlock's body then returned to meet his eyes as his voice twisted into viciousness.

"'ll burn the _heart_ out of you." Jim snarled, his face filling with hate.

"I have been reliably informed that I don't have one." Sherlock said, purposely ignoring that fact that his heart was in the room at this very moment, covered in explosives that would kill all three of them.

"But we both know that's not quite true." Moriarty said it slowly, making sure that Sherlock understood just how much he knew. Just how easy it would be to crush him. Jim looked down and smiled.

Well, I'd better be off. So nice to have had a proper chat." Sherlock raised the pistol higher and extended it closer to Jim's head.

"Ciao, Sherlock Holmes." Jim gave Sherlock one last look of distaste, then calmly walked towards the side door in which John had came through earlier. Sherlock slowly stepped forward, keeping Moriarty in his sight.

"Catch...you...later..."

"No you won't!" The door closed and everything was still and silent for a few moments. Sherlock's gaze moved to John and within a second he had put the pistol down on the floor and was on his knees in front of John, unfastening the vest that the bomb was strapped to. John tilted his head back, breathing heavily with relief.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked urgently, quickly working to get the vest undone.

"Yeah...yeah, I'm okay." John said, his voice shaking. Sherlock jumped up and hurried around behind John, ripping the the jacket and bomb off in one go.

"I'm fine." John told him, swaying on his feet. Sherlock's breathing was fast as he continued to wretch the parka and vest off. He finally managed to strip them from John's arms, and Sherlock bent and skimmed the items as far along the floor as he could. John staggered a bit from the force and with a trembling hand, pulled the earpiece out. His breathing became labored as the delayed shock finally hit him. Sherlock glanced at him, then picked up the pistol and raced toward the door in which Moriarty had gone through. John's knees buckled and he stumbled towards the nearest support, which ended up being the edge of one of the changing cubicles

"Oh, Christ." he murmured, exhaling a long breath in an attempt to calm himself. Sherlock came back in, having seen no sign of Moriarty outside. His eyes went to John, and the doctor suddenly found himself in a crushing embrace. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and held him tightly, squeezing with all his strength. The detective kissed John's head over and over again, mumbling his name.

"John, John, oh _thank god_ you're okay, I'm so sorry, I should've _known,_ this is all my fault-"

John cut Sherlock off with a needy kiss, mashing their lips together. Both of them were already breathless, and the gesture wasn't much more than an anxious, terrified brush of lips.

"Sherlock, I told you to run! God dammit, you're such a fucking _git_, you could've died!" John clutched as Sherlock's suit jacket, balling the expensive fabric up in his fists. Sherlock made a choked noise and shook his head.

"I don't care. John, you had a bomb on you! I could stop seeing it go off and it terrified me. I can't lose you John, _please, please don't leave._" Sherlock grabbed John's face and kissed him again, pushing the shorter man against the wall. They broke apart and stared at each other for a few moments, then pulled one another into a bone crushing hug. John rubbed Sherlock's back soothingly as the detective clung to him.

"Let's get out of here. I don't want to see this place ever again." Sherlock made a light, relived chuckle then hesitantly broke away from John. He stepped away and grabbed the gun from where he had dropped it on the floor, then froze when he looked up again. The sniper's laser danced over John's chest again, bright red against the brown fabric.

"Sorry boys, I'm sooooo changeable!" a door near the deep end of the pool opened and Jim came through, clapping his hands together. Sherlock kept his back to Jim, looking up into the gallery to try and judge how many snipers there might be up there. It became clear that there are quite a few because there were at least two laser points hovering over John, and more than three traveling over Sherlock's body. Jim laughed and spread his arms wide.

"It is a weakness with me but, to be fair to myself, it is my only weakness." Jim shook his head. "You can't be allowed to continue. You just can't. I would try to convince you but..." he laughed and his voice adapted the singsong quality again. "Everything I have to say has already crossed your mind!"

Sherlock looked over at John, his face showing no expression but his eyes screaming with a silent request for action. John instantly gave him a tiny nod, fully prepared to go through with anything Sherlock though up.

"Probably my answer has crossed your's." He raised the pistol and aimed it at him. Jim smiled confidently, with no fear in his expression. Slowly, Sherlock lowered the pistol downwards until it was pointing directly at the bomb jacket. All three sets of eyes lock onto the jacket, with John breathing heavily, Sherlock calm. Jim tilted his head, looking a little anxious for the first time. As Sherlock held his hand steady, continuing to aim towards the jacket, Jim lifted his head and locked eyes with his nemesis. Sherlock gazed back at him and Jim began to smile.

Sherlock pulled the trigger, grabbed John's arm, and hurled the man into the pool.

* * *

_haha plot twist and cliffhanger _


	16. Chapter 16

John's throat was dry and painful when his eyes fluttered open. The light overhead wasn't harsh, but rather a comfortable, soft luminance. He stared at the ceiling numbly, his mind not quite woken up just yet. But as his consciousness faded in, John had only one thing on his mind.

_"Sherlock."_

John forced his eyes open and tried to sit up, but slumped back down as his wrist screamed in pain. John looked over and saw his right one wrapped tightly in a compression bandage. He drew in a breath and attempted to calm his thudding heart. God, everything hurt. His hands felt raw and exposed, despite being wrapped in bandages as well.

_"Burns..."_ he thought, trying to remember what had happened. Sherlock had shot the bomb and tried to throw John's into the pool, but the army doctor refused to let go. They had both gone tumbling into the pool, and surged forward as the bomb exploded, water working it's way into their noses and mouths. Everything went a bit fuzzy after that, much to John's frustration. He noticed a glass with water in it sitting on his bedside table and he seized it, taking steady gulps of the cool, refreshing liquid. As he mulled over the situation, a knock came to his door. It opened, and the worried face of Lestrade poked in. A smile lit up his fretting expression almost immediately as he walked into the room.

"John! Good to see you awake." Lestrade went to his bedside, his expression softening in relief. "How do you feel?"

"Like shit." John said casually, making Lestrade laugh. He cracked a smile, then winced a bit. His lips felt unbelievably dry and cracked, and even the slightest pull sent pain rocketing through the thin skin.

"Yeah, I figured as much." Greg replied, not acknowledging that John had just winced for the sake of the younger man's pride. "You weren't in the best shape when we got there." he took a seat in the wooden chair next to John's bed and shifted a bit in the plush cushion.

"The whole front of the building was blown apart. Concrete and everything was everywhere. You and Sherlock were pretty lucky not to be more seriously injured."

John's mind cleared when Greg said his name and all the ex army doctor could focus on was the detective.

"How is he? Sherlock." the smile fell from Lestrade's face instantly and John's throat tightened up uncomfortably.

"He's uh..." Lestrade seemed to be stalling as he made noises that were unrelated to the question, answering only when John gave him a pressing look.

"Well, it could have been worse." he finished sheepishly. John's hand began to tremor slightly and he licked his lips nervously.

"Greg, don't play with me. How bad off is he?" Lestrade sighed, and sagged a bit.

"He's not quite bad," Lestrade said quickly, "but you got the better end of the deal. Still, like I said, it could have been worse."

"How_ bad_?" John's voice strained, and Lestrade sighed.

"Well, he has a lot of burns on his back. The heat went right through the fabric from what I saw. Uh, some cuts and bruises, and pretty sure he has a concussion. Had a head wound too. He's unconscious right now as far as I know. Lestrade could see John's face descending into worry and fear, and he raised his hands in a futile attempt to calm his friend.

"But you saved him!"

"_I_ saved him?" John said, raising a confused eyebrow. How had he? Sherlock seemed pretty bad off, so whatever he did wasn't quite enough.

"Yeah," Lestrade said, nodding. "He was awake when we got there, you weren't. He said that you pulled him to the pool. Smart move, the water protected you guys a bit."

"No, no, no," John shook his head. "Sherlock threw me into the pool. I just...I just wouldn't let him go..." John looked down at his trembling hand and closed it into a fist, squeezing in an attempt to make it stop. Lestrade nodded slowly. His demeanor changed in the next instant and John could see hesitance, anger and regret in his features.

"Greg-"

"Moriarty escaped. We don't know how he even survived a blast like that at such a close range, but he did. And he's gone." The words tumbled out and Lestrade grew more and more furious with himself at the thought of missing such a vile, detesting criminal. John nodded slowly and his eyes drifted up to look at the ceiling.

Moriarty had nearly killed the both of them, and he was just _gone?_ The bomb was within 10 feet of the man and he _survived? _

He_ escaped?_

John's head was spinning with the thoughts of possible ways he could've done it, and quickly became replaced with the wishes to know what injuries he had received He could feel almost barbaric urges of violence and anger forming and desperately wished that something, _anything_ had been done to the man who threatened the both of them.

"I'm sorry."

"It's not your fault," John sighed. "He's a devious, evil bastard. Of course he would've had a way out..."

"Still, Sherlock said he was pretty close to the bomb. I doubt that he would've gotten away without a scratch." Lestrade said, trying to make him perk up in the least. It didn't do much good, but the corner of John's mouth did quirk a bit in a sort of bitter hate. A knock came to the door suddenly, and both men turned to look. Mycroft stood in the doorway, his umbrella's point resting lightly on the floor.

"Good evening. Or perhaps, should I say, good morning." John caught sight of a clock up on the wall and realized that is was nearly 2:30am. Mycroft came into the room and walked over to stand next to Lestrade, placing his free hand on the man's shoulder gently. Greg turned his head to look at Mycroft and gave him a tired smile. John watched in surprise as Mycroft returned one that was clearly genuine, and he could see the affection in the politician's normally cold eyes.

"You look better, John. It's very fortunate that your injuries were not more severe." Mycroft gave him a small smile as he surveyed his state. John seemed to meet some sort of standard of wellness to him, for a flicker of relief passed over Mycroft's face for a split second.

"Mm, I know. You're the second person to tell me that." Lestrade smiled as Mycroft again, a bit of smugness joining to his expression.

"Beat you to it."

"I've found that you beat me to many things, Gregory."

John pointedly ignored the clearly innuendous banter between the couple and stared at a blank spot on the wall instead. Did they have to do this here? Sure, they were probably trying to lighten the mood, and John certainly didn't have a problem with that, but he _really_ didn't need to hear what was most likely a remark about one of the man's nether regions. They made a few more comments at one another before ceasing their chatter.

"I have several...teams out after Moriarty as we speak. I shan't allow him to hide for long." Mycroft stiffened a bit as he thought about the criminal and tightened his grip on the umbrella's handle. John nodded, despite finding himself unassured. He had killed 15 people and kidnapped 3 others before being put on an objective list, so why should John completely trust that they would find him now? The blonde haired man shoved these thoughts out of his mind and gave Mycroft a small smile.

"You're still fretting over him." the elder Holmes stated, looking John over again.

"Well, yeah," John's voice was clipped in annoyance. "He's lying in a bed someone that..." his voice trailed off as he tried to control his irritable, worn temper.

"Somewhere what, John?"

"Somewhere that isn't next to _me!_" the ex army doctor's voice was sharp, but both men knew that it wasn't directed at them. John was angry, he was downright furious, but most of all, he was drowning in worry over Sherlock. Given, they had been in the hospital before, but never for more than an hour tops. More so, it had never been for something as serious as a bomb.

"I understand your discontent with the situation at hand, and I can see what I can do about having a shared room but..." Mycroft sighed in distaste. "I'm sure that Sherlock won't be awake for more than 20 minutes before he goes off trying to find you."

"20 minutes?" Lestrade inquired. "I'd give him 15, tops."

John snorted in amusement. "Please, give him some credit. I'm pretty sure he'd already have another bed in here within 5 minutes." Lestrade and John chuckled and Mycroft quirked a small smile. It _would_ be fairly easy for Sherlock to get John's room number, and securing a bed from the next room over would pose no difficulty for the detective. John grinned at the thought of a bleary Sherlock looking rather bitter as he walked about the hospital in a backless gown.

"Hm, I must agree with John. My brother does seem to be awfully sneaky." Mycroft leaned against the chair slightly and his hand moved to place itself on Lestrade's back. Greg gave him another smile before yawning. Mycroft raised an amused eyebrow.

"That being said, I think perhaps you should try and beat Sherlock to the bedside awakening. Despite his tendency to not show it, his nerves have been a bit wrecked by this whole affair and not having to track you down would do him much good."

"Are you encouraging me to cause trouble?"

"Heavens no!" Mycroft responded. "I'm _merely_ advising that since you would be considered well enough to be discharged if you really urged to be, it might do both you and Sherlock a bit of good to wake up in the same room." Mycroft lifted his hand from Lestrade's back and gestured with it. "Just a thought."

"Does this thought have a room number?"

"Of course." Mycroft pardoned himself and stepped out of the room for a brief moment, then reentered with a bag now in his hand. He walked back over and gave it to John, who inspected its insides.

"Clothing," he explained. "I figured that you would rather have them than hospital gowns, yes?"

"Uh, yeah. Thanks." John didn't ask how Mycroft knew his size, for he wasn't the least bit surprised that he did. John felt the soft, warm flannel fabric beneath his fingers and didn't try and imagine what Mycroft might have spent on it. For a man who liked to give his younger brother a hard time about money, he sure did seem to like buying the best he could.

"But um, are these allowed? I'm okay to wear them right?"

"Please, John," Mycroft sighed. "No one is going to _forbid_ you from wearing pajamas. And, if you have yet to observe, this isn't St. Bartholomew's. I arranged for you and Sherlock to be brought to my own designated hospital, because God knows the staff at that facility can barely handle him when he's in his best state. No one shall object to either of your behaviors much here."

John nodded and relaxed a bit. He was slightly ticked about being redirected to an unfamiliar place, but more than happy that he wouldn't have to fight to see Sherlock. Somehow, the staff at St. Bart's continued to stick to the rules and regulations no matter how much Sherlock protested, whined, or god forbid,_ deduced._

Lestrade yawned suddenly, the sound cracking at the end with tiredness.

"Sorry," he said. "I'm pretty worn." Lestrade grinned sheepishly and wiped his eyes that had become damp from the yawn.

"I must agree with Gregory. It's nearly 3, and I do believe we are both in need of sleep."

"Damn straight. I've been up since 4 working on that case. I'm prepared to sleep for centuries." Lestrade stood up and stretched, one of his joints cracking loudly.

"Heal up, John. And don't let that berk of a detective overexert himself either." John nodded and smiled as Greg and Mycroft said their goodbyes, then left the room. John lingered in his bed for a moment longer before pulling the blanket back with his uninjured hand and gingerly moving to get out of the bed. God, he was sore. John's muscles were tight as he put his legs over the side of the bed and slid out of it. He grabbed the bag and shuffled over to the closed door in his room, opening it and finding a bathroom that was nearly the size of the one they had in the flat. He went and and closed the door behind him, then set down the bag on the counter. He reached in and drew out a long sleeve top, a t shirt and a pair of bottoms. The pajamas were a rich navy blue and felt wonderful against his skin as he slipped on the pants. He put on the soft t shirt, then carefully picked up the pajama top, slipped his hand through the long sleeve of one side, his other side following right after. John finally looked up into the mirror, and froze at his appearance.

_"I look better, my ass..."_ he thought as he stared at the reflection. John's complexion was washed out beneath the white light of the room and his skin was bruised in a few places along his temple and jawline. His hair was singed on the right side, and a few places were burnt to almost nothing. He felt those places, frowning as it prickled against his fingers. His scalp was red and warm to the touch when he brushed over it. God, he's need to get a haircut and have it all leveled out.

"Jesus..." he muttered. If he was the better of the two, John wasn't quite sure he really wanted to see Sherlock. Though, even the possibility of the detective being a complete wreck couldn't really banish the need to see him.

John took his hospital gown and folded it to the best of his abilities, then set it down next to the bag. A slip of white caught his eye and John noticed a small piece of paper clipped to the bag. He took it off and smiled at its writing.

"Room 147, 10 doors to your left." John recognized the spidery, elegant handwriting as Anthea's and figured that she was probably the one that had gotten his pajamas and awaited Mycroft's request for them. He turned the doorknob and without thinking, used his injured wrist. Wincing, John left the bathroom and caught sight of a pair of slippers now waiting next to his bed. He went over to them and slipped both on, then sighed at the warmth they provided for his freezing feet. He walked out of the room and into the hall, throwing quick glances at other patients that walked by. They didn't looked injured, or as if they had been in any accidents, so John figured that perhaps this was a rehabilitation center as well, most likely for citizens who's career positions did not enable them to go to a regular center, and who's wallets easily payed for it. The door to Sherlock's room was closed, but John could see inside through a small window. He opened the door and stepped inside, trying to be as quiet as possible. John turned around and his throat closed up almost immediately.

The room was very dim, almost to the point of complete darkness. John took slow, hesitant steps forward, his eyes voraciously studying the man in the bed. Looking utterly tiny, Sherlock also lay utterly still, his chest being the only thing that moved as he breathed. An IV was attached to his arm and John figured that it was due to the lack of nutrients that the man had accumulated during the past week. Lowering himself onto the chair at his bedside, John took Sherlock's hand and held it tightly. A white bandage was wrapped around the man's head, and his singed curls stuck out haphazardly. Another bandage covered a spot along the left side of his hairline, the white barely contrasting Sherlock's own complexion. There was a laceration along his cheekbone, stitched with a stark black thread. He wore a pale blue hospital gown from what John could see and the milky white blanket seemed to engulf him.

John found it hard to breathe and he clutched Sherlock's hand harder, drawing in a shuddering breath. He knew he wasn't to blame, he _knew_ that none of this could be pinned on him, but he just felt so _responsible_ for this. He couldn't have done anything more, no, no that was _lie._ He could have done so much more, if only he hadn't gone out to see Greg, if he had just stayed at the flat and watched Sherlock, had he just _stayed_ with him-

The doctor could feel tears of bitter hate and anger welling up in his eyes and he hurriedly blinked them away. It wouldn't do him any good to cry.

John felt the hand that he gripped return the gesture and he was startled, looking at Sherlock in anticipation. His dark eyelashes fluttered slightly before giving way to pale irises and unfocused, dilated pupils.

"J-John..." the detective croaked, turning his head to slowly look at the man. He winced as the burns in his head rolled onto the pillow and grimaced.

"John..." he said a little louder this time. He attempted to sit up, and promptly stopped as a pounding started in the back of his head.

"Hey, hey, relax." John whispered, rising from his chair to gently push the detective back down. Sherlock's body complied with no protest, and the doctor could see the lines of tiredness and agitation carved into his normally delicate features. Sherlock let out a weary breath and sighed.

"John, I'm sorry. He escaped-"

"Shh, it's alright. I know Sherlock, just take it easy..." he soothed, sitting back down in the chair and taking the detective's hand again. Sherlock settled back into the pillows as John gently ran his thumb over Sherlock's bony knuckles.

"I was stunned after the bomb went off. We went under the water and I couldn't breathe."

John listened to Sherlock's raspy voice as he spoke, and followed along as his memories came trickling back and seated themselves firmly in place.

"I...I grabbed you and swam to the other side. I burned my hand on the ladder." John interjected, looking at his bandaged hands, and remembering the way the ladder had been nearly unbearably hot as he wrapped his arm around it and held Sherlock's head above the water. The detective nodded and continued.

"But...I was more focused when Lestrade arrived. You had fallen unconscious at this point and remained so when they loaded you into the ambulance." Sherlock fell quiet, and John watched as his somehow unworn mind whirred away in thought.

"It scared me, John." he finally admitted, so quietly that if the doctor had not leaned forward, he would have missed it. "You looked pale and you were cold. I...I didn't want to let you go for the fear that I wouldn't see you again."

John gripped Sherlock's hand even tighter as he rose from the chair again. He moved over Sherlock and bent at the waist, kissing the man into silence. Pale, sinewy arms reached up and cool hands held John close. Their lungs struggled with the lack of air, already under pressure from the inhalation of the dust and debris in the pool. John could feel the tears coming to his eyes again and did nothing to hold them back.

"Y-You can't keep going off without me and putting yourself in danger...I shouldn't have gone off and made this happen, Sherlock you're such an idiot-"

He kissed the man over and over again, tears of fear and relief and anger rolling down his cheeks. Sherlock grasped at the flannel fabric of his boyfriend's pajamas, his bony fingers holding on as if it were a lifeline.

"John, John, I'm sorry. I never meant for this to happen..." Sherlock rasped, squeezing his eyes shut as his head began to pound. His mind had grown uneasily quiet, and the detective attributed it to his concussion, but now, everything was trying to get back to full power, every switch flipping on.

However, instead of being filled with a shrieking train wreck like he'd anticipated, it was instead filled with an almost loud buzzing and throbbing, and John wavered in an out of what he could call static. John gently drew the detective's hands away from his face, settling one back down and continuing to hold the the other.

"Easy, love. You've got a concussion, just rest." John composed himself and blinked away the remaining tears, exhaling a tremulous breath. He stared down at the detective, whose eyes remained scrunched shut in pain.

"Do you have a headache? A migraine? I can get you something-"

"No!" Sherlock squeezed John's hand tightly and forced an eye open. "I'm alright, I'm fine. Just...just please stay." John. nodded and sat back down, then rotated his shoulder as it twinged painfully. He watched Sherlock as his headache subsided, and the man let out an agitated breath.

"Guess we have to watch out for that big old brain of your's, huh?" John jested, managing a lopsided grin. Sherlock's mouth quirked up.

"I do believe it's my heart that I will be watching out for." Sherlock rolled onto his side so that he could face John and gave the man's hand another squeeze.

"And that's me?"

"It's always been you."

* * *

Lestrade pushed open the door with his whole body, sagging against it as he walked inside. Mycroft followed behind him, more alert, but just as tired.

"Bloody hell, he's gotten himself in a situation this time." The DI sighed, walking into the living room and plopping down on the couch. He leaned back into the cushions and stretched in his seat, groaning with the effort.

"I do believe he thought it was for the best. Though, thinking that Moriarty wouldn't take an opportunity like this was unbelievably foolish. It's as if he didn't even weight the possibilities and consequences."

"Maybe he panicked." Lestrade suggested. "Thought that he would try and go after John soon and wanted to get the man before it could happen." Lestrade leaned forward and began to take off his shoes.

"Whatever he thought was going to happen, it appeared to have backfired. Sherlock said that after leaving once, Moriarty came back in. He had changed his scare tactic into one of murder." Mycroft went and sat down with Lestrade, leaning against the man's shoulder. Greg reached an arm around his boyfriend, pulling him closer.

"He nearly rolled off the stretcher when they were loading him in. He thought he was well enough to ride with John. Fucking lunatic." Mycroft chuckled slightly and nodded.

"Precisely. I was rather surprised by how he managed to stay conscious after the blast. John had swam to the opposite side and hooked himself on the ladder, so that could be a justification for his passing out." Mycroft separated himself from Greg and began to take of his coat, tiredly shrugging it down onto the couch. "Combined with the energy he exerted this past week, it would be quite easy for it to catch up with him now."

Lestrade nodded in agreement and looked over at Mycroft.

"Speaking of that, I'm bloody worn. Nearly fell asleep in the car. Me snoring, just what Anthea would've wanted to see."

"I'm sure she would find your sleeping form and its noises as endearing as I do." Mycroft leaned in and kissed Lestrade, then put his forehead against the other man's.

"Bed?"

"If I manage not to fall asleep on the stairs."


End file.
